Living Ghosts
by seasidewriter1
Summary: Steve and Artemesia now live in D.C., working for SHIELD full-time. Just as their life seems it's going to pan out for the better, the reappearance of a fallen friend flips their world upside down. Plots are uncovered, enemies arise, and identities are questioned. The fall of an era is imminent, but a band of heroes arises to lessen the blow. "Dawn of Change series part 3" Steve/OC
1. Something New

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

Something New

"Harlowe, what's your status?"

" _In position. I count two guards positioned by the door––armed pretty heavily. Automatics, by the looks of it; I think we've got our room. You got a plan, Lieutenant?_ "

"I've always got a plan."

" _Really? 'Cause I distinctly remember a lack of planning a couple of missions ago…_ " Harlowe trailed off in a deadpan. With a hefty roll of the eyes and a suppressed chuckle, Art shook her head fondly.

"Stand by for orders," Art responded into her comm. She started to creep along the darkened catwalk, her footfalls making little to no sound. The grating would jostle and creak every now and then, so Art kept herself poised to pull her staff. S.H.I.E.L.D. had gained intel that an illegal arms shipment was going arrive in Iowa and then change hands and head overseas. It was suspected that some of the weapons were reminiscent of old HYDRA inventions; that in itself would have been incentive enough to stop the deal from happening. "Yates, what's happening on your end?"

" _No one has entered or exited the building; if they tried, we'd have something to say about it,_ " Yates responded, her voice babbling in Art's ear. It sounded like, despite the situation, the agent was smiling. Art's own lips quirked to the side, for Yates' enthusiasm for her job never seemed to wane. That woman had been shot, stabbed, had bones broken, and she still jumped at the chance to be in the field. Georgia Yates was one of the more spirited members of S.H.I.E.L.D. that Art had met, and she was always glad to have her on the team. Though, Art was sure if Yates were to ever meet Tony, the levels of sass and sarcasm would cause the world to implode.

"I expect nothing less."

" _I'll let you know if anyone wants to crash the party._ "

There was a faint shuffling just down the catwalk, which gave Art pause. She fell perfectly still, form frozen mid-step. She listened for another moment and heard someone clear their throat. Her knees bent and let her sink into an effortless crouch. Art tilted her head sideways and craned it forward, trying to catch eye of what was around the corner. About forty feet down the catwalk was a guard dressed all in black. A gun was holstered at their hip, and their back was facing the crouched soldier. With caution guiding each of her movements, Art slunk around the corner and started to sneak towards the man. She could utilize the staff, but there was no guarantee that it would make him drop. Before she could coherently plan what she was going to do, the guard began to turn towards her. Having only moved a little over fifteen feet, Art launched forward in a run and then pushed herself into a leap at the last possible second. Both her arms curled around the man's throat and her legs cinched in around his middle.

A gurgled choking sound left the guard's throat as his air supply was swiftly cut off. Both of his hands curled around Art's forearms, giving a mighty pull in attempts to disengage. With gritted teeth, Art increased the pressure around his throat, trying to get him unconscious as quickly as possible. Her body had arched away from his slightly, hoping that the way her arms tightened around the guard's throat would be enough to take him down. Had she attempted such a maneuver pre-serum, the chances of it succeeding would have been slim. But since Art had a store of super-strength to utilize, it may just work. Another strangled sound squeaked out of his throat and he started to flail his arms backwards in hopes of landing a strike on his assailant. None of them hit. A moment later, the world was thrown off kilter and pain radiated across Art's back. The guard had thrown himself backwards onto the catwalk; he clearly had hoped the impact of his body crushing hers would loosen her grasp or make her let go. Her only reaction was to grunt and give a slight wheeze as air rushed out of her mouth.

One of her hands migrated up to his face and clamped down over his mouth and nose. She clamped her eyes shut and waited to feel the guard to slack in her hold. Things that Bucky had told her about hand-to-hand combat came to mind, mixing with techniques that Natasha had taught her about neutralizing a target without actually killing them. She had married the two techniques––the choke-hold and the hand over the mouth––and was praying that it would work effectively. Slowly, the man's panicked movements became slower and weaker. And then, thankfully, they stopped all together. With another grunt, Art pushed his body off of hers. She followed it as it rolled over, keeping low to the catwalk just in case someone below happened to hear their bodies hit the grating. Two of her fingers found their way to his neck, where she sought––and found––a pulse. Art's body momentarily went slack, a sigh of relief leaving her lips. The escaped air was quickly replaced, however, in order to help regulate her breathing, which had become irregular when she'd fallen. She began to remove his weapons and his communicator ear piece, casting them aside so, should he wake up, it would be just that more difficult for him.

Just as she kicked his handgun along the catwalk, the grating shuddered with footsteps. Spinning around, still crouched, Art caught sight of a second guard coming around the corner from where she had just snuck from. His eyebrows were pulled into a stern line, and his lips seemed to be pulled into a permanent grimace.

"You alright, Smith? I heard some…" The new guard's voice trailed off as his eyes snapped straight to his friend's fallen form and the woman crouched over it. "What the––"

Art's hand flew back to her hip and withdrew the combat knife she typically had strapped there. Without so much of a second thought, she aimed and hurled it in a matter of seconds, eyes fixed on the exposed skin just over the neckline of his shirt. The blade whistled through the hair and stuck into the man's flesh. A gout of blood spurted from the wound before trickling down his front in a thick ribbon; his eyes widened as he gurgled and fell to his knees, likely feeling his last moments of life slip away from his body. Art snuck back along the catwalk and reached out to grasp the handle of the knife, removing it from the guard's body with a wince. He coughed, spewing blood into the air by means of a fine mist, and blood continued to pour from the gouge in his throat. It would seem she might have hit an artery. It didn't take much longer for the man to still, eyes glazing over.

Art sat back on her heels and gently cleared her throat, activating her comm as her heartbeat steadied. "Harlowe, update." She waited for what was, typically, a prompt response, but received nothing. "Harlowe." Again, silence on Richard Harlowe's end of the line. Art felt her brow furrow and something in her chest clench. " _Richard_ , come in. Do you read me?" A heavy sigh escaped her lips and she ran a hand over her face, the palms of her gloves gently sliding over her nose. "Yates, have you heard from Harlowe in the last minute or two?"

" _Can't say that I have, Lieutenant. His end's been pretty quiet,_ " Yates informed. Art pursed her lips, stomach twisting in an unsettling manner.

"Thanks for the update; let me know if he contacts you on a private channel."

" _Will do. Stay safe in there._ "

With the bloody knife still in hand, Art had risen to her full height and began a faster paced walk down the catwalk. Harlowe was always good with keeping her updated on everything was going on; if he wasn't responding, then it was highly likely that something had gone wrong. It wasn't often a mission went south. The face of Bucky Barnes flashed to mind as she walked. His terrified face as he was sucked out of the train and dangled hundreds of feet above the snowy ground. She banished the memory by physically shaking her head, trying to ignore the well of guilt blooming in her stomach. Ever since the dream she'd had where Bucky blamed her for his death, she'd been thinking about him more and more often. She felt increasingly more guilty that she hadn't done anything to try and save him. That guilt had driven her try and keep every single person on her team alive and well. It felt like it was her duty to S.H.I.E.L.D. and those dedicated people that worked within the organization, especially after mind-controlled rampage against them during the battle of New York.

The catwalk, which spanned the length and also crossed the width of the warehouse, gave Art a streamlined path to the far end of the building, where Harlowe had been tasked to go searching. Art had been sticking to the right side of the walkway, which was more drenched in shadow than the left; it wasn't perfect cover, but it was something. Her eyes were scanning the ground on either side of her, trying to catch sight of her missing teammate.

" _Lieutenant Knoll._ " Harlowe's soft voice came into being over the comms, a barely perceptible tremble clinging to his words. Art froze and tensed. She would have been relieved if the shaking hadn't been present in his voice. Harlowe was typically a very calm man whilst on missions; the fact that he might have even been a _little_ bit nervous was concerning.

"Harlowe, what's going on?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

" _They want us to leave, and to leave now,_ " he said, voice sounding doubled, as if he was standing next to her whilst they both held a conversation with the other on the phone. Art's head whipped around and she inched her way to the left side of the catwalk. In the middle of the warehouse floor stood a tall man with a familiar shock of orange hair. His gloved hands were held aloft, his rifle hung limply across his chest, and his back was ramrod straight. A man dressed all in black stood behind him, in a nearly comical manner; he was shorter than Harlowe by at least half a foot, which caused him to have to aim his gun _up_ at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's head. The guard kicked at the back of Harlowe's knees, sending him to the floor.

"I see you. I need you to stay calm, and stay still," Art whispered. She flipped the knife around in her hand so her fingers pinched the bloodied blade. "I've got a plan."

"Where is this Lieutenant you're speaking to?" spat the man aiming the gun at Harlowe. Art slowly raised her arm, wincing at the weight of the knife's handle.

" _I don't know,_ " Harlowe spoke, voiced still doubled by his natural volume and the comm in Art's ear. She inched closer to the edge of the catwalk and saw that the guard was backed up by a second, a well-muscled woman with short cropped hair.

"If she does not confirm your team's retreat, I'll paint the floor of this warehouse with the insides of your head."

Art pinched the blade harder, gaining a better hold on the blood-slick metal.

" _I would appreciate if you acted on that plan you mentioned._ " He was speaking through his teeth, most likely trying to hide their conversation.

"Do you trust me?"

" _With my life_."

"I'm gonna need you to take out the second guard once the first goes down. Think you can do that?" Art asked, eyes zeroing in on the guard. From the corner of her eye, she saw Harlowe just barely bob his head. With a deep inhale, Art steeled herself and prayed that the combat knife could travel the distance it needed to. On the exhale, she began a countdown. "Three… two…"

In place of one, Art hurled her arm forward and let the knife fly from between her fingers. It flew end-over-end through the air, faster than she might have expected it to. With a sickening crunch, the blade embedded itself in the head of the guard that had been threatening Harlowe. As he collapsed, the second guard quickly aimed her gun in the direction the knife had whizzed from. But before a shot could leave the barrel of her gun, a bullet flew from the barrel of Harlowe's pistol. It seemed as though it cut through the woman's left shoulder, sending her to floor nearly immediately. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent rose to his feet and turned to stare up at the catwalk, a hand having reached up to brush hair out of his eyes.

"You know, when you said you had a plan, I thought you meant you were gonna shoot him––not throw a knife into his brain. I didn't trust you _that_ much," Harlowe called up to her, accented voice carrying up into the spacious ceiling. Art leaned forward against the rail, a relieved grin appearing across her face.

"Past-tense! So you _do_ trust me that much, now!" she called back. Art swung herself over the catwalk railing and dropped towards the floor, landing in a crouch that stung her knees slightly. There was a puff of breath from her comrade's position, and she could've sworn she heard an exhaled 'show off.' She rose to her full height and went about retrieving her knife, hearing Yates mobilize her part of the team in the distance.

"This is what I meant by distinct lack of planning. But… thank you; I like having the insides of my head encased in my skull." He smiled at her and reached out a hand. Returning the smile, Art clasped his hand and gave it a hearty shake. It was a gesture that the two had taken to giving one another when a mission was carried out successfully. Harlowe was almost always paired with Art when it came to missions, as she almost always requested the Irishman when she was tasked with being the head of a task force. Art nodded towards him, smile becoming a bit sly.

"Don't think that I mentioned it before, but I like the beard," she complimented, extracting her hand from his. She reached down and removed the combat knife from the guard's corpse, wiping the blood off on the man's sleeve. Harlowe reached up to his chin with a grin, rubbing at the orange hair that had grown in nicely across his jaw. "Now, what do you say we get these weapons out of here and call it a night?"

"I think that's the best plan of the evening, Lieutenant."

OOOO

Art trudged up the steps to her and Steve's apartment, back still aching from the fall she had taken. It had been bruised in a few spots, but it would likely be healed by morning; till them, she felt like she was walking like she was showing her age––her true age of ninety-two. Cresting the landing, Art dug her keys out of her pocket, the pieces of metal jangling in her hand. When she rounded the corner, she spotted Kate, her pretty, blonde haired neighbor, unlocking her apartment door. She was wearing a pair of purple scrubs, likely having just come back from her shift at the hospital. A pile of plastic bags were situated at her feet, filled with numerous grocery items. Art smiled and raised a hand in greeting, receiving a bright, happy smile in return.

"Hey! You look exhausted," Kate laughed good naturedly. "Long day at work?" She twisted the keys in the lock and pushed the door open, revealing the dark room behind it. Art laughed and reached around herself to rub at a bruised spot in the middle of her back.

"You could say that, yeah. Need any help with the, uh, groceries?" Art asked. Kate waved a hand dismissively through the air, having already shifted a good number of them into her apartment. She tucked strands of flaxen hair behind her ear, looking genuinely grateful for the woman's offer. Part of Art was relieved for the dismissive gesture, as she wasn't sure how her back would deal with bending over a handful times.

"No, but thanks for offering. Oh, uh, here." Kate plunged a hand into one of the bags and extracted a tall black can that had a neon green tab situated at the top, and an equally vibrant 'M' across the front. Art reached out to accept the proffered beverage, staring at the logo. It was an energy drink. "It looks like you deserve it more than me."

Art raised her brows, laughed a bit and then held up the can in question. "You sure?" When her neighbor nodded, she smiled and popped open the tab. "Thanks." She poured some of the carbonated liquid into her mouth, tasting its tangy sweetness as it swept over her tongue. The thing was, it probably wouldn't make her feel any more awake. The wonders of a fast metabolism made sure of that, just as it made sure she would never be drunk again. But the sentiment was welcomed. Kate smiled and lifted the last two bags in one hand, shrugging her shoulders as though it was really nothing.

"You come back late a lot, and I thought you deserve a pick-me-up."

Kate had been a kind force in Steve and Art's life since the day they'd moved to Washington. She always stopped to chat with them whenever they ran into each other in the hall, that is, if she didn't have a shift at the hospital to catch. Her kindness was never off-putting, and her humor, which was often times dry and sarcastic, never failed to make Art smirk. Their interactions were often brief, but that was to be expected of neighbors who lived a hall away from each other. But it had been in Art's plans to invite her over for dinner at some point. But Art and Steve's busy schedules always threatened any potential social plans; they could be called away at any moment to be sent off on a mission to some place or another.

"Say hi to Steve for me," Kate said as she stepped over her groceries and into her apartment. Art raised her hand in a farewell and bobbed her head in a nod.

"Will do; have a good night, Kate."

"You too, Art."

The Rogers-Knoll apartment was bathed in soft lamp light that warded off the gentle darkness that evening had brought around. Art plopped her keys into a bowl, which was placed in a wooden organizing unit that separated the hall from the kitchen. It also served as shelving units, where they stored their cups and plates and the like. The keys jangled and clanked as it collided with Steve's and some spare change that had been tossed in absentmindedly. She kicked off her shoes half-way down the hall and nudged them aside; she would put them away later, if she felt up to it. Seated on the couch in the living room was Steve, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a relaxed t-shirt. The warm yellowish light danced over his face, highlighting a set of injuries that he hadn't had when Art had seen him that morning. A cut slashed through his bottom lip, creating a scabbed crescent near the corner of his mouth. A bruise blotched the area just beside his eye and eyebrow, and there seemed to be a similar one stretched along his jaw. All three injuries were apparent on the left half of his face.

"Oh, my god!" Art exclaimed, reaching out to switch on the overhead light. Its brightness filled the room and Steve squinted his eyes against it, a half-grimace, half-smile appearing on his face.

"Headache," he stated simply. Art's fingers immediately tugged the switch downwards, returning the room to its previous state of lighting. Steve smiled fully and thankfully, shifting on the couch as she approached. Art sat down beside him and tucked her legs beneath her, facing his injured side. The can in her hands was placed on the floor, and her attention was turned fully to Steve. She reached out and brushed blond hair off his forehead before allowing her fingers to drift towards the bruising.

"I take it that the mission went well?" she asked. Her finger-tips grazed the reddened area, touching it light enough so he wouldn't feel pain. Steve watched her from the corner of his eye, his lips still pulled up into a smile.

"It did. Turns out that it's pretty easy to get hit when your cover gets blown, as evidenced by, uh…" Steve chuckled and gestured up to his face. His shoulders rose and fell in a vague shrug. "It'll heal pretty quickly."

Art smiled and patted his chest, eyes still dancing over the red and minorly swollen areas of his face. "Not nearly as quickly as it would if those were _my_ injuries."

Laughter bubbled out of Steve's chest and his eyes crinkled up at the edges. He had been smiling more, much to Art's unadulterated joy. It seemed that Steve felt more adjusted after things had settled down post-battle. He seemed to feel more comfortable in the modern world, and once that was so, he started to seem more and more like his old self. Laughter filled the apartment daily, which used to be a rare occurrence. He would grin brightly and beautifully countless times in a day and innumerably so in a week, or a month.

"Well, you look like you got through _your_ mission unscathed," he shot back with laughter continuing to lace his voice. Art clucked her tongue and sat back, removing her jacket before she cast it side. She turned her back to Steve and clutched the hem on the neck of her shirt. With a couple of tugs, she revealed her skin of her back to him, its paleness painted with purple splotches. It wasn't long before she felt fingertips carefully trail down her spine. The touch was so light it was nearly feathery. "How'd that happen?"

Art tugged her shirt back down and turned to tuck herself into Steve's side. Her head lolled onto his shoulder and her hand casually fell to rest over his stomach. The day's events replayed in her head and a deep sigh escaped her lips. Mimicking Steve's shrug, Art clicked her tongue again.

"Well, there was a guard I needed to get past, and he was taller than me––"

"A _lot_ of people are taller than you," Steve mentioned cheekily. Her height hadn't been subject to teasing for quite some time, but Steve had started to point it out on occasion, just like all the fellas back in the war used to. A smirk crawled across Art's face and she rolled her eyes.

"Well, you're just being a rude fella, aren't you? Anyway, I leapt onto his back and tried to choke him into unconsciousness; unfortunately, he tried to get me off him by falling square on top of me," Art summarized. "It'll be gone by morning, or mostly gone by morning." Art healed the fastest between the two of them, thanks to the modifications Schmidt had made to the serum she had been injected with. Neither of them scarred anymore, though scars from battles past––for Art, at least––still remained.

Steve turned his face down towards her, and he snuck his arm around her waist. His hand began to gently rub circles across her back, clearly being carefully not to place too much pressure into the movements. Art hummed quietly and curled her arm around Steve's front. Their foreheads came to rest gently against each other, the moment becoming increasingly tender.

"Want a massage?" he asked softly. A smile stretched across Art's face, but she shook her head.

"It still hurts a bit too much for that. Though, if the offer is still standing tomorrow, I might just have to take you up on it." Art pressed herself closer to him, aware that she could very-well end up on his lap soon. Steve returned her smile and let his hand still in the center of her back, fingers splayed out.

"Yes, ma'am."

Their lips met in a kiss, which was immediately followed by a second. Steve shifted and sat back against the couch arm, which allowed Art to straddle his lap. Her hands slid up the length of his torso in order to cup his jaw. Such intimate moments between them were few and far between, as of late. At any one time, the other was called away on a mission whilst the other was at home, or both would be away on the same mission, which left no room for such personal interactions. Though, they made it a point to go out on dates as often as possible, particularly when it seemed that they had a clear weekend. Art felt Steve's hand slip into her hair, just at the nape, his fingertips leaving a trail goosebumps as they glided up the back of her neck. Just as the impassioned nature of the moment began to escalate, Steve hissed and drew his head back. His brows were pinched together and he curled his bottom lip inward; his tongue darted out to touch the cut that marred the sensitive flesh. A thin rivulet of blood snaked its way down his chin, which he wicked away with the back of his hand.

"Ow…" he murmured.

"Sorry," Art replied. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, which remained shorn fairly short. "I guess kissing doesn't really help the healing process." Steve chuckled and shrugged, his hands having moved to sit on her waist. Art leaned forward and shifted around in order to snuggle herself in between Steve and the back of the couch. Steve adjusted his own positioning to accommodate her, keeping an arm wrapped around her waist.

"Wasn't your fault; I blame Fury for sending me on that mission."

"Don't let him her you say that, you'll get an earful."

Art pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, a smile still playing across her lips. She shut her eyes and hummed tiredly, basking in the warmth radiating off of Steve's body. The energy she expended during the mission hadn't fully returned to her, and it was all catching up. Her back ached dully and her eyes wanted to remain shut. With her head situated comfortably against Steve's shoulder, she felt herself slowly begin to nod off. Steve was talking to her, she could hear him, but she wasn't registering words. The warm tone of his voice was background noise that aided in lulling her towards sleep. Sleeping had become easier since the Loki incident, but it wasn't always peaceful. The image of Bucky's bloodied visage haunted her dreams, and more often than not, Loki would appear, grinning like a maniac. He would tell her she was a good soldier, a term that she shied away from anytime anyone applied it to her. But she found that Steve's presence beside her did help some. Art felt more comforted with him at her side, and that often staved off the nightmares. The peaceful feeling of the room was enough to give her hope that her rest would follow suit, and she would dream of nothing but the good days that were to come.

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**And that's that for the first part of the Winter Soldier! We'll be diving into the movie fairly soon, once I set up their new life in D.C. and what not. I hope all of you are excited about my introduction of Richard Harlowe, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent of my own design! I picture him as looking like Domhnall Gleeson, if you're curious. Yates will be introduced, too, in all of her sassy glory.**_

 _ **Anyway, I've got such plans for the events of this movie and I cannot wait for you all to read it! I hope yo uenjoyed the first chapter, and I hope to get the second one up soon! Thanks for taking the time to read!  
~Mary**_


	2. Memory Slip

Disclaimer: I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art.

2\. Pierce

Art came to a stop at the foot of the fifty-eight stone steps that climbed up to the Lincoln Memorial. She placed both hands on her hips and sucked in a deep breath, scanning the other side of the plaza for a familiar head of blond hair. A figure was dashing up along the far side of the reflecting pool, legs carrying them impossibly fast as they neared their destination. Art grinned and repeatedly tugged at the stomach of her shirt. It allowed for a refreshing flow of air that cooled her down, and caused the dog tags on her chest to clink and rattle. Steve stopped running as he set foot in the plaza, the two comrades walking forward to meet the other halfway.

"I finally beat you," Art said in a breathy voice. She grinned a bit wider when Steve rolled his eyes at her proclamation. The two had endeavored to go on morning runs together when they could, initially taking the same route as they got used to their new surroundings; then, once they knew the ins and outs of the area, they decided to make it a bit of a competition. Art would take one route around the National Mall, and Steve would take a different one. If they both made good time, they could run the opposite sides of the reflecting pool in synchronicity. The run always ended at the Lincoln Memorial, and Steve had consistently been 'winning.' But, finally, after months of living in D.C., Art had won.

"You didn't do the steps," Steve pointed out cheekily. That time, Art rolled her eyes and gestured to the proud memorial at the top of the offending stairs.

"But I made it to the memorial. We never specified what part of the memorial; you just like to reach the top."

"Well, hop on," Steve turned around and gestured to his back, "we'll reach the top together." Art smirked and placed both hands on his shoulders, feeling the muscle tense in preparation for the added weight. She jumped up and locked her arms around his neck and Steve firmly took hold of the crooks of her knees. They had climbed the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in such a manner before––more often than one might believe. Honestly, Art hated running up any sort of stairs. She always had, and the added stamina didn't change that, even though it was easier. And Steve knew that.

Art leaned forward to murmur, "But it's still my win." Steve only chuckled and started to jog up the steps. She was held remarkably steady as he bounded upwards, his movements seemingly effortless. Infuriatingly so to those who were unable to perform such a feat. Once the two crested the final step, they stopped and stared directly at the seated stone statue before them. Abraham Lincoln's visage stared out over them, face solemnly composed. "So that means…" Art slipped off Steve's back and patted him solidly in the middle of his back, "I get to pick the movie tonight."

"What'll it be?" Steve inquired, lowering himself into a seated position. He braced both arms against his knees and his gaze followed Art's movements as she sank to sit beside him. Sunlight glittered across the surface reflecting pool and the leaves of nearby trees rustled gently. Art took in the picturesque view before her, eyes focusing hazily on the tan obelisk in the distance. A hand rose to play with the dogtags around her neck while she flicked through the mental catalog of movie titles people were endlessly recommending to the two anachronistic soldiers. They had an entire notebook dedicated to films, television shows, and plays they needed to experience.

"Pirates of the Caribbean. Georgia recommended it––it's a trilogy about pirates, or something like that," Art decided on, sliding one oblong metal tag along its chain. Steve bobbed his head as though he had heard her, despite the fact his eyes were focused on the identification tags around her neck. A lull in conversation occurred, allowing the sounds of the surrounding area to flow in. The babble of tourist groups. A distant car. The rush of rustling branches. The faint tittering of birds.

"You've stopped wearing those regularly," Steve pointed out, referring to the dog tags. "I only see you wear them when you train or before you go on a mission."

Art's thumb slid over the face of one of the tags, and she could feel the ridges and curves that formed the letter 'J.' She knew everything on that dog tag. It read James B. Barnes, followed by a complicated set of numbers she had memorized––his army serial number and blood type. After that was the name Mrs. Winifred Barnes––his mother and next of kin––and then his address. The second dog tag was her own, but with the name Arthur G. Kensington stamped into its face. That was followed by information she remembered doctoring at the bar the night her life had changed. Both pieces of metal had been scuffed and worn down by time, but they were still legible. It still felt like Art had only just received her own set of tags mere days ago. She had been given a new set once she had awoken in the modern era; an honorary set, done in the formal used in the Second World War. But those sat in a drawer somewhere in the apartment. A faint smile appeared at the corners of her mouth as her thumb danced across Bucky's name a second time.

"I suppose… it's because Bucky was the one who got me through basic training. He practically kept me alive at the beginning, stopped the bigger fellas from beating my face in. God, there's no way I would have been able to express how thankful I was for that… But since he's gone… since we're here… having that tag with me makes me feel like he's still here. Like Bucky's still urging me forward, pushing me to discover what it is I can do with these new enhanced abilities of mine," Art explained. She turned a little smile in Steve's direction, only to find that he, too, was smiling.

"Bucky would be proud of you," Steve told her. Art smiled and tugged on Bucky's tag, thinking of his bright smile, twinkling eyes, and infectious laughter. An ache formed in her chest, recalling the moments the three of them had shared; how perfect it would have been to have him sitting there with them, admiring the beautiful day before them. "He was really fond of you; told me the day after you and I met that you were a real stand-up 'fella.'" Steve snickered and shook his head. "God, he was so surprised when he realized you were a woman."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Art deadpanned, and remembered the look of utter betrayal on Bucky's face when he had connected all the dots. The twin sister excuse was pretty shoddy, though, she had to admit. Then she recalled the heartfelt apology he had offered, and how her gender wasn't going to change the dynamic of their friendship. "He would be proud of us," she amended, dropping her head so it rested atop Steve's shoulder. Steve curled an arm around her waist, a hand settled firmly against her hip. From her periphery Art could see Steve smiling, albeit it was tinged with sadness. "His little trainee and his boy from Brooklyn… Do you… do you still think about what it would have been like if he hadn't fallen from that train? If we had all been allowed to live peacefully after the war?"

Steve nodded and let out a drawn-out exhale. It was hard not to think of that impossible alternative. Of how the three best friends could have returned to New York together; how they could have lived their lives in the era they were meant to live in. They could have gone to the pictures and frequented Art's favorite diner. Bucky could have found himself a nice gal and they all could've gone dancing. God, Bucky would have been happy to know Steve had finally learned to dance.

"Of course I do. Less so, now, though." Steve smiled down at Art and she lifted her head from his shoulder. "There's a lot of good things happening now that I get to focus on."

Art beamed and shifted to kneel in order to press a kiss to his cheek. She wound both of her arms around his neck and shoulders and gave a squeeze, rocking him back and forth as he started to laugh. "You're such a romantic."

"You're one to talk!" Steve laughed, pulling at her arms like he was trying to break a choke hold. Art giggled and held on tighter, suddenly more appreciative for her added strength. If she had ever attempted such a thing back in the forties, Steve would have been able to pull her arms away as though they were strings of spaghetti. Now, he actually had to work to pull her off. There was something about that that made her want to laugh and cling to him like a young child. See how long it would take for him to actually pull her off. It was playful. It was loving. It was everything that made both Art and Steve happy to have each other; it was what had been making the twenty-first century bearable.

OOOO

Artemesia Knoll and Richard Harlowe both strolled into the Triskelion, walking in perfect sync. Both held coffee in their right hands; Harlowe had driven her to work, so Art had repaid Harlowe's kindness with the delicious frappuccino with whipped cream and a smattering of cinnamon across its creamy surface. The two had been chatting idly as they passed through the second security checkpoint, flashing ID badges with casual ease. Art hadn't planned on working in any capacity that day. Her initial plans had been to get some coffee, go to the bookstore, and then have a movie night with Steve––Moulin Rouge! was on their roster for that evening.

"Why would the Secretary of Defence want to meet with me?" Art inquired as they walked towards the elevators. The lobby of the Triskelion was open and covered by a ceiling made of glass, expertly up-kept so not a streak or crack was present. Other members of S.H.I.E.L.D. and visiting diplomats and the like milled about. There was a small little café situated near the elevators, where it was easy to find any given agent on their lunch break. The coffee there was better than the stuff in the canteen.

The Triskelion was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s base of operations in Washington D.C. It was a large, gleaming building set on the bank of the Potomac River, creating dazzling views on bright, sunny days. On days when the weather wasn't so friendly, the river appeared grey and dismal. The headquarters had become something of a second home for Steve and Art, who were there on an increasingly frequent basis. It wasn't uncommon to see either of them leading a group of agents to a briefing or debriefing, or to have them bolting down the halls in an urgent rush to get begin a top-priority mission. More often than not, though, they could be seen calmly making their way to Nicholas Fury's office, ready to be handed a case file. Thankfully, though, the missions tended to be relatively spaced out, which allowed the two heroes a chance to rest between the exhausting outings.

"You're not serious, right?" Harlowe deadpanned. His lips closed around his straw as he drew forth another sip of frappachino. Both brows crunched together and Art didn't know whether it was related to their conversation or the temperature of his drink. "You're Lieutenant Liberty! Why wouldn't he want to meet you? He probably wants to personally thank you or give you a medal or something." He jabbed the button that called the elevator as Art laughed.

"A medal? No… No, if anything, I'm sure that he's going to enforce the court-martial I should've faced all those years ago. A general court-martial that would have resulted in dishonorable discharge with the best outcome."

"Phh, there would be a riot if anyone tried to court-martial you based on those old laws. I'm sure that Pierce just wants to meet you to meet you. Get to know who it is that's protecting the country––the world." Harlowe sucked down another sip of his beverage before he cleared his throat and addressed the "You aren't still hung up on the whole 'I'm not a hero' thing, are you?"

Art sighed and let her head loll backwards. Raising it again, she sighed and pushed hair out of her face. "Not as much as I used to be. You see, when Steve signed up to be Captain America, back in the day, he knew what he was getting into. He knew that he would be publically regarded, and highly so. I never made an agreement or signed any papers to be called Lieutenant Liberty… to be considered a hero. I just… awoke from my coma and discovered I was regarded as such. I'm still getting used to it, but… I'm less resistant than I once was."

"Well, you are a hero. You always have been. You're just in the public eye now. I'm sure your brother thought of you being more of a hero than even Captain America himself. I think you're a hero. You've saved my life more times than I'd care to say," Harlowe chuckled. Grinning, he playfully thwacked her arm. "You'll get used to it in time."

Art made the journey to Fury's office alone, downing the rest of her coffee in the elevator. She didn't necessarily feel nervous about meeting the Secretary of Defence. Maybe she would have if she had known what it was that he wanted to meet with her about. She knew that the court-martial example she had used earlier was bogus; she knew they wouldn't follow through with a years-old suggestion of punishment. So, when she knocked on the door, behind which Fury usually resided, Art didn't know what to expect. A 'come in' could be heard in the room just beyond. Art stepped into the office and was greeted by an unfamiliar face. The older man that approached her was wearing a sleek, shale grey suit, accentuated by a vivid blue tie. His grey blond hair was neatly styled and a set of thick framed glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose. He smiled widely and proffered a hand as they met halfway.

"Lieutenant, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. I'm Alexander Pierce, the Secretary of Defence," Pierce introduced. Art returned his pleasant smile and accepted the offered handshake. His grip was firm and unrelenting, something that would be hard to escape if one felt the need to.

"The pleasure is all mine, Secretary Pierce," she responded. "I apologize for my civilian attire, I was not aware we were to be meeting until half an hour ago." Pierce chuckled and waved a hand through the air, dismissing her comment.

"There's no need to apologize. You deserve to not have to wear that uniform of yours every waking hour. Even the greatest heroes need the chance to unwind; and that's why I don't intend on taking up too much of your time." Pierce gestured for her to follow him and then seated himself in one of the plush arm-chairs in the mostly unused seating area just to the right of the door. Art had never seen anyone use the pieces of furniture and often assumed it was just there for decoration. She sat across from Pierce, utilizing just the edge of the stiff grey cushion. "I just wanted to meet you in person, Lieutenant Knoll. You are truly a remarkable person, I hope you understand that."

Art laughed gently in a humble reflex. "I… thank you for your compliment, Mr. Secretary. Though, I can assure you that everything I've done to be considered remarkable is the least that I can do." Pierce seemed to find her humble response worthy of a smile, as that was exactly what he did. Though, there was something about that smile that didn't seem quite… right. Like it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You are invaluable, Lieutenant. You and Captain Rogers, both. Utterly invaluable. We couldn't have asked for two better heroes to be aiding us in protecting not only this country, but this world. You have endured much, and I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done." Pierce then smiled again, in the same manner as before. "And everything you will do." Something about the emphasis that he had put on 'will' was peculiar; Art passed it off as being unused to the way the Secretary of Defense spoke. He rose to his feet and gestured to a small table on the other side of the room. "Can I get you anything? Water?"

"No, thank you," Art turned down politely, running her palms over the tops of her knees. Pierce made his way across the room, back to Art as he selected a glass. A silence filled the room that could only be described as awkward. Art didn't know what conversation to start, or if it was appropriate to start one. Hence was why she reverted to the practiced silence that she had exercised in the military. The one that she utilized when she was being given orders, or standing at attention, waiting to be given the signal to speak. Unconsciously, Art sat straighter and held her chin just a fraction higher, as though she were sitting at attention.

"I can't imagine what you went through," Pierce said as he slowly went about pouring himself some water. Slowly, Art turned her head in his direction, her eyebrows crinkling together. The tone of his voice had shifted to one more solemn and low; it was almost as though he was recalling memories that made him think back to a less happy time. "What with losing your best friend… Schmidt kidnapping you… being tortured…" Art felt her muscles tighten and her posture became more rigid. "It's truly a miracle that you escaped HYDRA's clutches––and single handedly, too."  
Art clenched her jaw as she recalled wrenching herself free of her bonds before hurling a metal tray straight at the Red Skull's face. A hand rose to rub at the scar at the junction of her neck and shoulder, right where the syringe of serum had been forcibly jabbed into her flesh. That had been the day that her entire life had changed––in some ways for the worse, in some ways for the better.

"Only because of the serum…" she murmured to herself, in response to Pierce's statement. A shake of the head brought her back to reality, to the warm sunlight bathed office instead of the cold prison of Schmidt's mountain base. Art cleared her throat and realized that Pierce had turned around, water in hand, and had been watching her. His face was distinctly void of emotion. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize, the subject is probably still raw for you. You must still be getting used to your increased physicality––all of the abilities the serum gifted you with." Art frowned at his use of the word 'gift.' Pierce smiled at her and pulled off his glasses, approaching the chair he had previously been sitting in. "I want you to know, Lieutenant, that if you ever need anything I'd be glad to help with what I can," he told her. "Any… queries, comments, concerns––don't be a stranger."

Art looked caught off guard, her brows raised, her lips parted, and her arms crossed. She cleared her throat and looked down at her boots, feeling a shiver ripple down her spine. The feeling in the room suddenly seemed to have shifted, starting when Pierce had suddenly brought up her kidnapping and subsequent torture. Looking back up, Art found that Pierce was stood just to her right and was looking at her intently. She forced a quick smile that fell after only living for a handful of seconds.

"A very kind offer, but I'm quite sure that my troubles wouldn't render the notice of someone in such a high position," Art said, picking her words carefully. "I'm sure that Director Fury wouldn't mind me bothering him. Well… won't mind much. If you'd excuse me, I should be leaving. I have some errands I need to run before the day ends." As she rose and turned to leave, she felt a hand wrap around her wrist.

Reflexively, she tensed and spun around, tugging her arm towards herself; she was ready to attack. It was a reflex she seemed to have picked up post-war, post-Loki. Maybe it had spawned from the paranoia that next time she was grabbed unexpectedly she would suddenly not be herself again. That Loki had her in his clutches once more, preparing to weaponize her. But it was only Pierce who held her wrist, who smiled at her in a way that made her stomach flip-flop uncomfortably. They were stood uncomfortably close, Art having physically pulled him forward half a foot when she attempted to retrieve her arm from his grasp. They stared at one another for a tense, quiet moment.

"I insist," Pierce intoned lowly.  
"I insist as well." She twisted her hand from his grasp and made for the door, a determined set to her walk.

"Verhindern, dass meine Kriegerin."

The movement in her legs stopped and she phased out for a moment. Conscious thought stalled and, for a frightening moment, she didn't think. Art slipped into a daze and stared at the door. Her expression was blank, her eyes sharp and focused, yet glazed over. The words that had been spoken were hazy, pure background noise. Something she wasn't quite able to understand. Yet… whatever it was he'd said had stopped her dead in her tracks. With an inhale that started slowly and then ended sharply, Art was wrenched out of her daze. It felt as though she had been pulled out of a dream. She turned towards Pierce, looking unsettled as her lips twitched wordlessly. The haze had disappeared and left behind a feeling of confusion. Whatever it was they had just been talking about––she didn't remember it. She had been feeling uncomfortable and had been about to leave, but had the Secretary said anything? Said man was watching her with a gaze that almost felt… appraising. Art cleared her throat and wet her suddenly dry lips.

"Did… did you say something?"

"Only that my offer still stands, should something come up."

"O-of course. Thank you, Mr. Secretary."

"I look forward to working with you in the future," Pierce said, raising his glass in means of a toast. Art merely nodded and continued her exit, rubbing at the back of her scarred hand anxiously. She clutched that hand tightly as she made her way to the elevator, brows pinched together severely. The sudden 'brain fart' as Tony would describe it, was disconcerting. She had never had a memory blank like that before, so maybe it was just a one-time slip up. Yes, it must have just been a fluke, Art tried to convince herself. Just a memory slip. Nothing more.

Translations (According to Google Translate) (If you know this to be incorrect, do let me know):

Verhindern, dass meine Kriegerin––Stop, my warrior.

Afterword: It's been too long since I updated this. I was unsure what I wanted to do pre-movie, so I've been trying to figure out what would be adequate lead-up. Also, I've had school work that has occupied a lot of my time. But I finally managed to get this chapter cranked out and I'm excited to post it!

Review Replies!

grapejuice101: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Nik1804: Oh, there will be plenty of Bucky in this one; and I'm so excited to write him more, even if it's in his more heartbreaking incarnation. And we'll get some more memory throwbacks to Bucky when pre-Winter Soldier. I can't wait to advance Steve and Art's relationship, which is going to be a crucial part of this story. I hope you enjoyed the update! Thanks again!

RJ North: I'm glad you enjoyed the mission at the beginning of last chapter. I thought it would be a good way to introduce what it is Art does now that she's part of S.H.I.E.L.D. It also gives a nice bit of foreshadowing of how much action will be befalling her and Steve and Nat later on. It also demonstrates how Artie can work on her own, and isn't tied to Steve in order to be badass. And Art and Steve deserve to have those nice, happy moments together; they've been through so much. And I do have the whole progression of their relationship milestones planned out. While we might not get anything particularly intimate (that would require a rating change) in this one, it's (highly) possible we will see such a thing in the future ;) I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Madama Crimson: I'm glad you enjoyed the new portion of the story so far; I hope you enjoyed the new chapter, as well. Thanks again!

AvengerGleekShadowhunter: I really found no reason to pit Kate and Art against each other. She isn't outwardly flirting with Steve, and Steve isn't flirting with Kate, so she's just their friendly neighbor. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Potterbooks215: Here's the new update! Sorry it took so long to get to!

KoreanMusicFan: As of yet, third base has not been reached, but they're getting there. I hope that you enjoyed the newest chapter; thanks again!

animagirl: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the new update!

Nina fo life: CA: TWS is my favorite, so I'm super excited to finally be writing it. I have had so many plans for this part of the story since the moment I first saw it; it was what spurred me to start writing this story again, actually. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Crystal-Wolf-Guardain-967: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

LMarie99: I'm glad! I hope that you're still enjoying the newest installment!

Shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod: Harlowe and Yates are going to be appearing quite a bit in the build-up to the events of the movie… you'll wait to see if either of them are associated with the baddies. I have such plans for little StArt moments throughout this story, and I cannot wait till you get to read them. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

AlwaysChillin98: Thank you; I'm very happy you have enjoyed the newest part of the story so far and hope that you enjoyed the newest update! Thanks again!

vampireadtic: I'm good at inspiring emotional rollercoasters––I've been told it's one of my talents :) Sorry for the wait regarding the update, but I hope you enjoyed the newest chapter! Thanks again!

The girl with no life: Harlowe is probably the agent that's closest to Artie––I mean, they get frappachinos together, and he's willing to divert his morning route to pick her up. I immediately knew once I created him that he looked like Gleeson, and I'm glad that you pictured him as such, too. I, too, am excited about this exceptionally brutal chapter in Artie and Steve's life; it's gonna be tough, but they're gonna make it through. They'll only be closer. I hope you enjoyed the newest chapter! Thanks again!

Jo: I hope you enjoyed the newest chapter; thanks again!

The Redshirt who Lived: Artie is starting to find herself in her new position as a hero; and that just means more badassery is to come! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Kimberley: I'm happy to have addicted you and to have you as a reader! I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

KMB: We've got a very small handful of chapters before the movie events truly kick in, but I'm sure that you'll enjoy them, too! I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter just like you enjoyed the previous one! Thanks again!

anonymouscsifan: Luckily, most of the oncoming chapters are built to allow Steve and Artie more fluffy moments; they deserve to have some before the movie events kick in. I hope that you enjoyed the newest chapter! Thanks again!

Guest 1: I do promise to update more. I've got through the craziness of the beginning year and everything is finally settling down. Keep making those assumptions and suspicions about what could possibly connect to the last two stories; you may just find you're right. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Guest 2: I have such plans for the events of the movie, and I cannot wait to get to them. I hope you enjoyed the newest chapter! Thanks again!

Guest 3: I hope you stick around to read more! The next chapter is on its way! Thanks again!  
And thank you to everyone who has added this story to their follows/favorites; it means a lot to me!

So that's it for right now; the next chapter will be up soon, and before you know it, we'll be into the swing of things and be in the movie events. I hope that you all enjoyed the newest chapter, and I'll see you all in the next one! Thanks again!

~Mary


	3. Interrupted

_Disclaimer: I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

3\. Interrupted

Art placed a box of cereal into her shopping cart before returning her hand to the bar used to push it. One handed, she continued down the aisle, eyes dancing over the products lining the shelves. She paused and picked up some granola bars, eyes skimming over the packaging.

" _You know, some people would probably find it weird to see Lieutenant Liberty shopping for breakfast foods,_ " drawled the amused voice of Natasha. Art smirked and laughed softly into the phone held up to her ear. She squished said device between her cheek and shoulder, snatching another package in order to compare the two brands.

"Why do you think I've got this nifty ball cap on?" Art inquired playfully. She made her decision on granola bars and indelicately dropped the box in beside the cereal. The hand rose to adjust the brim of her nondescript black baseball hat, which had slipped a little too far up her forehead. She felt like she was hiding from paparazzi. "I still find it a little strange that it's no longer social etiquette to remove hats when you're indoors. That used to be gentlemanly and down right respectful." Art exited the aisle, now maneuvering the cart with one hand again, and paused and mouthed 'sorry' to a woman she'd almost crashed into. She ducked into the next aisle and started her way up. To her left was a selection of bread and to her right was a spread of magazines and books.

" _Sign of the times, grandma._ "

"I thought we got past the name calling."

" _But it can be oh-so-much fun,_ " Natasha chuckled on her end of the line.

Art rolled her eyes and stopped to look at the numerous magazines and their glossy, bright covers. She let her fingers skim over a few of the covers before picking one up to examine its cover. Big, bold words blared out celebrity names she didn't really recognize, posted what were likely to be fake tabloid drama stories, and spewed promises for new sex tips 'to please your man.' Art made a face. Sign of the times was right––she would have never dreamed of having those kinds of headlines so bluntly advertised back in her day. Art had stuck to magazines such as Life and Collier's and Cosmopolitan. When she was in the military, she would manage to sneak Britannia magazines into camp by claiming it was 'for the pictures of women.' Bucky had once teased her––before he discovered her secret––about the fact she actually seemed read the articles. That was when Art had resigned to reading books over magazines while in camp.

"Got any magazine recommendations?" Art asked, shuffling the packet of pages back into place. Natasha seemed to make a humming sound, as though considering.

" _Meaning anything that doesn't have a gossip column?_ " she asked. Art smirked and gently leaned her weight onto the shopping cart.

"Oh, you know me too well, Nat."

" _I'm not sure any of those exist anymore, Lieu. Better stick to books._ "

Art scoffed and shuffled the magazine back into place before she continued her casual stroll through the grocery store. Halfway down the aisle she paused next to another customer. He had a red shopping basket snugly situated in the crook of his arm, and there were a number of items piled up inside. Richard Harlowe, looking rather like a business man, glanced over at Art, looked away, then looked back at her shopping cart. He pulled a face.

"Are you actually grocery shopping right now?" he asked lowly. Art glanced at him over her shoulder and shrugged, arching her eyebrows innocently.

"Two birds with one stone!" she defended. "I do my job and I get groceries so I can eat dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. Not that hard."

"It'll be a whole helluva lot harder if you're distracted when our guys make a move," Harlowe grumbled with a slight shake of the head. Art smirked at the Irishman and reached out to give him a fond pat on the arm. He tried to look mad, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in part of a smile.

" _Don't look too comfy, you're not supposed to know each other,_ " Natasha reminded over the comms. Art had only been using her phone as a decoy, an excuse to look like she was talking to someone. Natasha was up in the security office, watching the camera feed as they buzzed around the grocery store in preparation.

"Speaking of comfy, are we going to have to do this much longer? I'm a bit bored of trying to remember to the ingredients to my mother's meat pies." Harlowe nodded to his basket, which was likely filled with what ingredients he remembered he needed. He and Art parted ways then, dutifully ignoring each other as they would anyone else in the store.

There was nothing like having all of your targets use a local grocery store as a front, Art thought to herself, as she stopped by the small section for internationally imported foods. They'd had to scope the place out from the outside for a few days in order to figure out their movements. A little bit of recon was done on Nat's part, doing a little digging to make sure that they were really on the right track. And they were. This time around, there were some Loki fanatics trying to build a working replica of his staff. It was cause for concern, because they believed one of them might have gotten hold of some Chitauri technology in the aftermath of the Battle of New York. They were waiting for Natasha to tell them the back was cleared.

" _Well, the look-out seems pretty comfy back in his hidey-hole, so one of you may have to take initiative of some kind. The rest of the back is clear, from what I can see. Lieu, you're closer to him, if you'd like to take a look. The door to the packing room is in front of you and to your right._ "

" _I've got your six. I'll pull through the next aisle and stop at the end,_ " Harlowe reassured, his voice now carrying through the comm system. Art pretended to end her phone call, and slipped the phone into her back pocket. She parked the shopping cart at the end of her current aisle and casually made her way towards the refrigerated shelves of meat. As she pretended to ponder the fat percentages in the ground beef, she glanced up from under the bill of her hat. She stared through the window that looked into the meat packing room and tried to get a visual on the look-out. She spotted him, a twenty-something year old in a blood smeared white coat, doodling on a clipboard.

"I have a visual," she said, going back to her fake perusing. "I'm going in."

Art reached up and tugged off her baseball cap as she made for the set of swinging double-doors that led into the packing room. She nudged the door open a bit and poked half of her body through, pretending to look a little sheepish. The man looked up with his mouth hanging open, hand pausing over the clipboard.

"You, uh, can't be in here…" he trailed off, eyes narrowing a little bit. He was suspicious, that much Art could tell. She shrugged and scrunched her face up in embarrassment.

"I was just looking for the bathroom," Art laughed off. She shuffled another step inside and gestured over her shoulder. "I'm new in town and I don't know the store very well. I know sometimes you kinda have to duck behind work counters to get to the bathrooms…"

"Yeah, but this is the _meat packing room,_ why would you have to…" The narrowness of his eyes suddenly blew wide as recognition struck his expression. "Oh, _shit_ ––"

Art rushed forward as the man tried to push himself off of the table. She was quick to launch herself at him, tackling him back atop the stainless steel platform. The baseball cap in her hand quickly found a new home over his face, blocking his vision out completely. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Art exhaled as she fell atop him.

The man wrenched the cap off his face and retaliated in kind. He swung his clipboard around and whacked Art across the back of her head. She hissed and her hold on him slackened just enough for him to shove her away. Art felt two feet plant themselves against her stomach and push, throwing her backwards; she felt that terrible pull in the pit of her stomach that came right before a fall. A snap decision was made and Art utilized the momentum to do a backwards roll, ending up on her knees. She raised both her hands and kept her face as neutral as possible.

"Look, all of this can be done in a much more civilized fashion. All you have to do––" Art's pleading was cut short as the man launched himself forward and latched both hands around her throat. With furrowed brows as she was thrown back into the wall, Art shoved both her hands into the man's upper-chest. There was a moment of struggle, as the two fought against each other for control of the situation. Finally, Art managed to pry his hands away, and mimicked the stomach-kick he had given her earlier. Gulping in a new lungful of air, Art pushed herself back onto her feet as quickly as she could manage. Just as she raised her head again, their suspect let out an enraged battle-cry worthy yell and something sharp entered the flesh of Art's thigh.

There had been many moments in Artemesia's life that she had dealt with pain. Emotional pain––the life changing pain of losing her parents, the heart wrenching pain of losing a best friend. Physical pain––nearly having a hand blown off, bullet grazes, arrow wounds. Not to mention the terribly unbelievable pain of pushing past some kind of mystical, magical mind-control magic and the agony of having every one of her cells changed by a neon blue serum. But despite all of those instances, though, it never failed to surprise her just all-consuming any type of pain could be, no matter what one had experienced before. Any pain––lesser or greater than the most one had ever felt––nearly always managed to feel completely consuming. Breathtaking. Mind boggling. Such were the hazy, barely coherent thoughts Art was having as she fell back into the wall.

The shaft of a metal pole jutted out from her right thigh and blood oozed from the pierced flesh. The slightest of movements shot a spark of heated pain through her body. Art gaped down at the blood spot blooming across the front of her jeans. She cried out as the man forced the pole a little deeper, his face contorted in a look of desperate fear. Art grabbed the man by the collar of his bloody white coat and threw her forehead straight into his, their skull sharply cracking together. Bucky had once told her head-butting was a terrible battle tactic that hurt both parties; that it wasn't worth the pain and potential self-injury. But it _did_ do the job. Her assailant reeled backwards, and straight into a metal cart, which slid away under his weight. Harlowe crashed into the room, gun drawn. Art barely registered her colleague shouting as she slouched down the wall, her injured leg screaming out in pain as it contorted awkwardly. The spot where her head had connected with the Loki fanatic's throbbed and her vision felt a little wobbly. With the mission suddenly forgotten, both of her hands cupped either side of the wound and pressed down. She bit back a grunt of pain and instead threw her head back into the wall. The tile cracked upon impact. Blood began to peak out from between her fingers, and Art pressed down a little harder, biting out a swear under her breath.

Natasha appeared through the double doors, making a beeline for Art, whose face was contorted into a grimace. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" she teased blandly.

The crunched space between Natasha's eyebrows betrayed her worry for the wounded soldier. Art attempted a laugh as the redhead dropped into a crouch beside her, examining the metal rod that was imbedded in Art's leg. The soldier lifted her gaze as a crash echoed through the room; Harlowe had slammed the fanatic onto the table he had been sitting on at the beginning of the entire encounter. The Irishman was growling something into his ear, looking none-too-pleased with how the situation had gone. Art hissed when Natasha moved one of her hands and cautiously prodded her wound.

"Nah––I kiss Steve," Art managed to get out in a strained voice.

Natasha shook her head and offered a healthy eyeroll. The soldier shifted, placing both hands on the floor and placing her weight atop them, making a clear effort to either shift position or––worse––stand. The blood on her palms made the tile floor slickery. Two hands were quick to push her back against the tiled wall, firmly holding her there. Art arched a brow at Natasha, who was giving her a stern look accentuated by a tiny smirk.

"Oh, no, you're not going anywhere, Lieu," Natasha warned, pulling her hands away. "We'll get the medical team in here and they'll get you out." A little bleary eyed, Art shrugged. It was a weak gesture, but that only helped it look as casual as she was trying to make it. The corners of her mouth briefly flicked upwards.

"You know… I think I could walk. I've, uh, been through much worse. Did I ever tell you about the time Falsworth nearly blew my ear off?"

The former Russian spy snorted and shook her head, staring at her friend with a disbelieving look sprawled across her face. "Are you making jokes right now?"

Art tried for another smile, which came to life briefly before flickering into a grimace. Her bloodied hands returned to her leg, hoping to steady the rod, which had started to wobble and cause shocks of pain to shook through her leg. "I gotta get through this somehow…" she ground out through gritted teeth. "Thought it might help…"

From the corner of her eye, Art watched as Harlowe hauled her attacker to his feet and marched him towards the doors. He was calling for back-up to storm the back of the store and find the workshop.

"The hell did he stab you with?"

"The broken handle of an industrial mop? I dunno… all I know is it hurts like hell…"

"We'll get you to the medical facility and have you patched up; Steve would kill me if I returned you home with a metal shaft protruding from your body," Natasha drawled, half of a smirk playing across her face. Art laughed and shut her eyes as other members of their team were called in to help get her out of the store.

"Hey, Nat?" Art asked, grunting as her leg continued to throb. Nat arched an eyebrow in silent inquiry. "Would you mind grabbing my groceries? I actually need them."

OOOO

If there was one thing that Art had never liked, it was bed rest. It made her antsy and left her feeling trapped. The damage to her leg hadn't been substantial, but she had been given strict instructions from S.H.I.E.L.D. paramedics to rest up till she was sure her super-healing had mended her thigh. Five to six days, they estimated. She hadn't left the apartment in three days, and had been under Steve's watchful eye the entire time; he made sure she didn't stand on her leg more than necessary, and helped her limp from room to room whenever she needed to go somewhere. He would hold her against his hip, letting her keep the weight off the injured limb. That was the only good thing that had come out of the painful experience––Art and Steve finally got to have some time with each other. They had both been so busy with their respective missions that they hadn't seen much of each other in recent days.

"So," Art drawled from her spot on the couch. Steve appeared from the kitchen two plates in his hands; he arched his brows to curiously prompt her to keep talking. "You enlisted Mrs. Washburn' help to keep me in the building?"

Earlier that day Art had attempted to hobble out of the building and head to the corner store just to relieve her restlessness. It was when she reached the floor just beneath theirs that the elderly Mrs. Washburn poked her head out of her door, and informed her she needed to return to her apartment and rest. The woman was sweet, but very paranoid, and as a result she was almost always stationed at the peep-hole set into her door. Art was sure that Mrs. Washburn knew exactly when she and Steve left and came back from work, and probably also knew Harlowe by both face and name. She was like the neighborhood watch of the fourth floor. She also happened to be very persistent, which was how Art had ended up slowly limping her way back up the stairs.

Steve smirked and handed her a plate before seating himself beside her. She arched a brow at him, face caught between being amused and annoyed. He pulled an endearingly sheepish face, and raised his shoulders up to his ears. When they dropped, he tried a little laugh, smiling charmingly.

"If there was anyone who was going to see you leaving, it was her. I think she writes down the name of every person who passes by her door, and the time she sees them; it's in a journal by her front door, I saw it when I helped her with groceries last month," Steve attempted to recall, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular. Art snorted and shook her head, poking the prongs of her fork into the piece of chicken on her plate. While she cut at it, her expression became thoughtful as well.

"Do you think she ever worked for an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D.? If not, we should give them her contact information, she'd be a great informant," she joked. Steve chuckled along with her. "You know, a walk to the store wouldn't have killed me."

Steve fixed her with a stern look, which edged too close to being his 'Captain' look. "Maybe not, but it would slow the healing process down. You may heal quicker than back in the forties, but extraneous movement is only gonna slow it down." He placed a hand on her knee, giving it a caring squeeze. "I don't want you hurting any more than you already have been."

A smile started to pull across her face, and she leaned in to kiss his cheek. She threaded her fingers through his hair, the blonde strands slipping smoothly between her digits. His hair had always been so perfect––the perfect shade of golden blonde, the perfect texture, always perfectly styled. On more than one occasion, Art found herself envying his hair, especially when she had been attempting to mimic the hair-flick of the forties. Steve smiled at her gently, the corner of his mouth lifting before dipping into a look of loving worry.

"I love you," Art murmured. Steve smiled a little wider, a slyness entering his expression.

"I know," he replied smoothly. After a beat, she started to laugh, beaming brightly. It had taken her a moment to realize that Steve was referencing Han Solo. Their most recent pop culture literacy item had been Star Wars––starting with the original trilogy before bouncing to the prequels, as Clint had instructed.

"Clint would be so proud of you," she teased.

"I'll be sure to surprise him next time he stops by," he replied with a smirk.

The two ate their dinner while sharing casual conversation, the record player on the other side of the room playing Steve's favored Bing Crosby record. They took turns choosing what music they played. One day it would be Bing Crosby, the next the Andrews Sisters, then Ella Fitzgerald the day after that. Art had started introducing Steve to more modern music––Queen and the Beatles being played most often.

"By the way," Steve said, as he set his wineglass on the coffee table, "did that doctor ever call you back?"

When Art had been at the medical facility, she'd requested she get her head checked out; the memory lapse incident with Pierce had been lingering at the forefront of her mind and she wanted to know if anything was wrong with the ol' noggin. Because if there was, Art wanted it addressed immediately. The doctor had seemed a little confused, but agreed anyway.

"Yeah, actually. She said that there wasn't anything on the brain scan, and that it was probably just a 'harmless lapse in short term memory.' Said that it happens to everyone. Another possible explanation is that it was caused by some lingering trauma from New York," Art explained. Beside her, Steve furrowed his brows lea

"But you would've healed by now; you would have been healed _months_ ago."

Art shrugged and gingerly touched her temple before her fingers slipped into her hair anxiously. "I was told that since Loki's stuff isn't like anything they've ever seen––magical and all that––that they don't know what aftereffects if could have on the brain. I'm willing to believe that his bullshit is what caused that bizarre lapse; pushing past his influence was excruciating, and I wouldn't be surprised if it damaged my brain. I'm just… _so worried_ that there's something wrong with my head."

The couch cushions shifted when Steve scooted closer to Art so he could curl his arm around her waist. That arm was a warm, steady comfort and a reassurance that he was there, like he always was. Like he always would be. Art felt his lips brush against her temple, then her cheekbone, and her jaw.

"There's nothing wrong with your head. It's just as pretty as it's always been," Steve murmured. A smile threatened the corners of Art's mouth in reaction to her beau's compliment.

"You're such a charmer."

Steve hummed and pressed another kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering a little after the initial contact. Art felt his lips begin to tentatively leave a trail of kisses down the length of her neck, each one light and loving and sweet. Her eyes fell shut, comforted by the affectionate gesture, lifting a hand to place on the back of his neck. The trail of kisses stopped at her shoulder, where a final, punctuated kiss was left. When Steve lifted his head, eyes slightly hooded, Art turned to immediately capture his lips with hers.

It was a kiss that started slow and tender, gradually growing in fervor. One that had Art running her fingers through his hair to leave it rumpled, and had Steve grasping her hips with strong hands. Their lips moved together in a dance they had worked on perfecting many an afternoon post-mission; a silent conversation that spoke loudly, ebbing and flowing with questions and responses. Art placed a hand on the back of his neck and leaned backwards, pulling Steve down with her. He followed her lead and helped her carefully maneuver herself till she way lying flat on the couch. It was clear he was trying to keep as much of his weight off of her as possible, what with the distance that was still present between their bodies. Steve made a provocative sound in the back of his throat when Art slowly hitched her good leg over his hip, to push him closer. His weight atop her was welcoming, and she grinned against his mouth when he pressed a little closer still. The hem of her shirt was hiked up a little by one of Steve's hands; she moaned a little when his hand made contact with bare flesh. One of Art's own hands slipped down the length of his back and the tips of her fingers just pushed under the waistband of his jeans, which was when there was a disruptive knock at the door.

The couple on the couch froze and waited to see if the sound would repeat, hoping beyond hope that it was just something they had imagined. The knocking returned, this time accompanied by a voice.

"Captain Rogers? Lieutenant Knoll?"

It was Harlowe.

Both Steve and Art sighed, eyes falling shut against the all too familiar moment. Work always got in the way. Steve rose from the couch first and slipped his fingers through his hair to smooth out the disheveled locks of blonde. Art was quick to follow suit before heading to the door with a barely perceptive limp. The muscles in her thigh still trembled a little at the effort it took to walk, but it was substantially better than the first day of bed rest. She opened the door to find Harlowe, dressed in his civies, waiting for her.

"Evening, Richard," she greeted with a friendly smile. Harlowe returned the smile and ran a hand through his neatly styled red hair.

"Evening, Artie. How's the leg healing up?" he inquired, pointing to the aforementioned limb. Art tapped the side of her thigh and then gave it a little rub, recalling the silver rod that had been sticking out of it days before.

"Perfectly fine. I'm up and walking, and it doesn't bother me too much. Would you like to come in?"

"May I?" He gestured to the door with raised brows, his other hand sheepishly rubbing at his skin-close beard. Art smiled a little wider at his politeness and nodded him inside. The two entered the living area, where Steve had just finished cleaning their plates off the coffee table. He approached Harlowe with a nod and extended a hand for a handshake.

"Richard, it's good to see you again," Steve said, a little smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. Steve and Harlowe had been on a handful of missions with each other, but they had come to know each other better through assorted dinner parties and S.H.I.E.L.D. organized events. They got along well, and if Steve ever suspected Art was down-playing the events of a mission for his benefit, he knew he could turn to Harlowe to get the whole story.

Harlowe nodded and accepted the handshake Steve proffered, smiling charmingly.

"The same to you, Steve. And as much as I would like for this to be a social visit, I'm afraid it isn't," Harlowe said with a regret filled expression.

"Fury calling us in?" Art asked in a knowing voice. Her friend nodded and sighed, already looking exhausted.

"Who else would ruin a perfectly good Saturday night?" he laughed. "I told him I would drop by and tell you personally since I was already in the area."

"Who else is called in?" Steve asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Harlowe exhaled and shrugged his shoulders, shoving both hands into his jacket pockets.

"The usual team for big away missions––Rumlow, the strike team, us… he wants both of you to lead the away team, as always. That is," Harlowe turned to Art and nodded to her leg with a pinch forming between his brows, "if you're well enough to go. If not, you're welcome to sit this one out; no one would blame you."

Art shook her head to deny his concern, patting her leg like that would demonstrate its strength. "My recovery period is almost over and I'm basically completely healed. I won't leave you guys one soldier down, I'll be there." Over Harlowe's shoulder, she saw Steve give her a reprimanding look. "Hey, Richard, we've got some left-overs from dinner in the kitchen if you'd like to grab something before we leave."

Harlowe murmured an excited 'lovely' and bounded into the kitchen, leaving the two heroes in the living room.

"Artemesia…" he drawled lowly, cautiously utilizing her first name.

"Steven…" she retorted in a mockingly stern tone. Then she sighed and walked over to him, reaching up to cup his face in her palms. "Look, I know you're not a fan of me getting up on my feet just yet. But this is our job. We put other people before ourselves, for the good of the world. I'll take up with the our ranged attackers; provide cover from a distance and stay away from any strenuous fighting. I'm not a fan of hurting myself, despite what circumstances show." Art scooped Steve's hands into her own and stretched up onto her toes, kissing him chastely. "I love you."

Steve wrapped an arm around her waist and held her flush to his chest, smiling fondly down at her. "I love you, too."

"If you two are about to start snogging, I'm not offering you a ride to the Triskelion," deadpanned Harlowe. The couple smirked and turned around to find the Irishman leaning up against the wall, a bowl of chicken and pasta in his hand. "This chicken is really very good, by the way. Cheers to whoever made it."

 ** _Afterword: **I feel terrible that I haven't posted for the story for so long. I had hit a serious wall with it, not knowing how I wanted to lead up to Winter Soldier. I also had to take a step away from all my writing in general, because school and life were just not being kind to me in the least bit. But, recently, I got a good creative kick in the ass and I just rewatched a ton of Marvel movies, so I'm feeling really good about getting back into this story and the characters. So, without further ado…**_**

 ** _Very late review replies!_**

 **Madama Crimson:** _I'm glad that you enjoyed the first two chapters, and I hope that you're still around to read the newest one. I hope you enjoyed the new content!_

 ** _heroherondaletotherescue:_** _Pierce really is creepy, and he really creeps Artie out, too. When everything starts kicking off, it's only gonna get worse. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _runawaycherry93: _**_I cannot wait to get back to Bucky, too. I adore writing him. I'm antsy to started on the movie events so he can get reintroduced to the story, if only in the guise as the Winter Soldier at first. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _Nik1804: _**_There's something fascinating about how Pierce managed to keep his HYDRA side hidden for so long, and how he managed to get so much done. It's terrifying but intriguing, I do agree. And I think that Art having paranoia about those who hurt her is realistic, so I like making sure to bring it up every now and again; because it's so integral to her fears as a person. I'm itching to write Bucky, even in his Winter Soldier format. I can't wait for Artie to react to him being back, it's gonna be a punch in the feels. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _Nina fo life: _**_I'm eager to get to meeting Sam––I think he's severely underrated and an absolutely fantastic character. He's full of sass and he's such a good guy. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _Jo: _**_I'm excited that YOU'RE excited about all of the little details you're picking up, and all of the theories you're coming up with. I adore hearing what you and everyone else thinks of all these little snippets I keep dropping. WS is really when I started integrating a lot of the secretive little things I've been planning on doing in this story for years. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _The girl with no life: _**_HYDRA seeming to still have power over her is frightening. And in upcoming chapters we'll discover more about it… seeing Bucky again is gonna be a heartbreaker, especially because Artie saw him as a brother, and he's so completely different, now. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _anonymouscsifan: _**_Pierce does seem to have something up his sleeve, the sneaky little bastard… and she did mention it all to Steve, as they both agreed that they needed to be more open with each other after their last fight. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _LMarie99: _**_Art has a terrible history of being mind-controlled, right? Maybe that paranoia will serve her well, though. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _KMB: _**_Thank you, so much! Steve and Art have, indeed, reached this comfortable place in their relationship where they're starting to explore more serious things, and that is so exciting. I'm beyond flattered you enjoy the way I write and how I describe things, it makes me feel all warm inside! And I, too, love mind control, and I was really excited when they started to do more stuff with it and go deeper into it within the canonic MCU (like in Civil War and such). I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _Guest: _**_Thank you––the last few months have been terrible and it was hard to get hold of time and motivation to write. But I'm very excited that you've been enjoying the story, and I hope that you enjoyed the chapter!_

 ** _Kira: _**_Thank you for the corrected translations, I want to make sure that it's all as correct as it can be. I've always wanted to learn German––and almost did––and now I realize I should have! You're translations are a huge help, and I'll be sure to bounce back to the last chapter and correct it. I hope you have a lovely day, as well! Thanks again!_

 ** _Guest 2: _**_I hope you enjoyed the update! Thanks again!_

 ** _The Otaku Lady Priya: _**_You're review made my day when I first recieved it, and just made my evening now, re-reading it. I am so glad that you've enjoyed reading Artie and her story from the very beginning; she is one of the most carefully planned out OCs I have ever written, and I try to make her and keep her a realistic character that fits realistically into the MCU; and I am always excited when someone loves her as much as I love writing her. I'm thrilled to hear that you also enjoyed Steve and Artie's relationship and how it built over time, from them meeting in the military to them about to fight the Winter Soldier. I am absolutely honored that you've added these stories to your favorites, and even more honored that you've added me to a favorite author's list. Thank you so, so much! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!_

 ** _Kimberly: _**_Thank you so much––I am back after a long absence, and can't wait to get back to writing Steve and Artie's story! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!_

 ** _Guest 3: _**_An update has finally arrived! I hope you enjoyed reading!_

 ** _Guest 4: _**_I was lost in the depths of creative blocks and lots of school work! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!_

 ** _DianaBlack27: _**_I, too, am too emotionally attached to let go of this story, especially with how much of their story is left to tell. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 ** _And thank you to those who have added this to their follows/favorites––it means a lot to me!_**

 ** _Okay, then! I hope to update soon, and I WILL update sooner than what it took to get this chapter up. I'll probably start the movie events sooner rather than later, as I feel like, right now, there's only so much I can write before it becomes too repetitive. That being said, if there's anything you'd like to see before shit kicks off (another StArt date, some more Pierce, some time with Harlowe or Natasha) let me know, and I'll be happy to see if I can fit it in. I hope that you all enjoyed the new chapter, and I cannot thank you all enough for being so patient. Let Steve and Artie's story continue!_**

 ** _~Mary_**


	4. Back to Work

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

4\. Back to Work

There was a tearing sound as Art wrenched the top of the cardboard box open. Inside was a mass of airy tissue paper, which was wrapped around obscured objects and shoved into empty spaces to prevent jostling. The first thing she removed turned out to be a small oval picture frame made of brass, in which resided a black and white photograph of her Aunt Florence. The corners of Art's mouth quirked upwards as she set the frame on the coffee table. It was a picture that had been taken some time after Art's presumed death; she could tell by prominence of Florence's laugh and worry lines. She had been a strict but loving woman, doing everything she could for Art and Kenneth in the wake of their parents' deaths. She was one of the people Art wished she could have talked to at least once more. Smoothed out the wrinkles she had caused in disappearing so suddenly. Kenneth had assured her that, despite their aunt being decidedly cross regarding Art's decision to join the military in the guise of a man, Florence had forgiven her.

"You can keep that photograph, if you like," Kenneth said as he entered the room. He approached the couch with a slight limp, utilizing his new cane for support whilst he moved. "I've got plenty others. You need family pictures for your own home; god knows you have few enough as it is."

"Are you sure?" Art inquired. Kenneth nodded his assurance and offered her the mug of coffee he clutched in his wrinkled hand. His sister smiled up at him and accepted the mug, hugging it between both of her palms. She brought it close to her face, letting the delicious smell waft towards her nose. "Thank you."

"Consider it a 'thank _you_ ' present for helping me finish move house. I suppose there's an advantage to having two super soldiers in my life," he chuckled whilst retreating into the kitchen. Art listened to the sound of his new pattern of foot steps; how one lasted longer than the other as he leaned all his weight on his right leg and cane. It was funny how once, a very long time ago, she had listened to the quick pitter-patter of his eager footsteps running down the hall.

In Kenneth's growing age, he discovered that living in a building that required him to climb multiple flights of stairs every day was becoming a bit detrimental to his health. Such was why he opted to move to a new apartment that had an elevator. He'd shipped all the way out to a neighborhood in Queens, to a building that fit his needs. When Art had mentioned that she and Steve needed to head to New York for a few days, he enlisted their help with shifting boxes and furniture, as well as repaying them with a free place to stay whilst they were there. Both were eager to help and agreed to do so whilst they were in the city. Moving furniture was easy, especially when their day-to-day work typically involved fighting for their life.

The front door was nudged open prior to Steve stepping through carrying an armchair. He held it with ease and showed very little strain in toting it around. Once it was placed where Kenneth had previously instructed it be placed, the soldier straightened up and mopped a hand across his forehead. Sweat had beaded at his hairline from the extended effort of moving furniture; it was easy, but it was still work. He looked over at Art, who had watched him from the couch, and quirked an eyebrow.

"So I've dragged all the furniture up here and you're just sitting here drinking coffee?" Steve playfully teased, placing his hands on his hips. Art smirked and lifted the mug to her lips, a brow quirking cheekily. She made a show of sweeping her gaze over him from head-to-toe, lingering in certain areas.

" _And_ enjoying the view," Art replied whilst eyeing him pointedly. Steve grinned and shook his head, chuckling in response to her tease. The mug was gently swung in his direction in a toasting motion, and she took a sip from the mug. After wiping away a drop that had dribbled from the corner of her mouth, she nodded towards the door. "That was the last chair, right?"

Steve approached the door before pushing it shut with the flick of a wrist. He smiled over at her and nodded. "That was the last chair."

Kenneth re-entered the room with another mug, which he held aloft with a bright expression. "That means you've earned your coffee, Captain," Kenneth announced. The soldier smiled gratefully and accepted the beverage, inclining his head to simultaneously older-yet-younger man.

"Thanks, Kenny."

"No need to thank me. I'm just repaying your kindness in what little ways I can." He beamed brightly at Steve before making his way over to the newly arrived chair. Kenneth sank into it with a pleased exhale and propped his cane up against the arm of it. His brows furrowed and he adjusted his glasses, eyeing his sister and her beau. "Remind me again why it is you came back to New York? Besides helping your dear little brother, of course."

"The government wants us to make a few little films that they can show to students in schools across the country. Something about a… fitness challenge amongst other things," Art offered with a shrug.

Across the room, Kenneth chuckled happily. He waggled a finger at his sister and bared his teeth in a smile. It was an infectious look, one that made the corners of Art's lips turn up at the corners; his smile had always been infectious. Art arched both her brows in acknowledgement of the gesture and gave a quiet chuckle.

"I knew that you'd end up getting sucked into stuff like that. Interviews, documentaries, _museum exhibits_ … My sister is a bonafide celebrity! A celebrity that still has the mind to come help her brother when he needs her," Kenneth said with a proud tone. Art's heart swelled at the pride on his face. She hid a sheepish smile into her mug and drew her feet up onto the couch.

There was nothing on planet earth that would ever stop Art from helping Kenneth with anything he needed. That was something that hadn't changed since the day he was born. She hated that she had missed so much of his life––that she wasn't there for his wedding, that she'd never met his wife, and that she hadn't been there to see her niece and nephew be born. But she made up for what time she had lost by being there for him now. Being there when Kenneth needed her, and being there whenever time and circumstance allowed it.

"Who helped you move all of the essentials in?" Steve inquired conversationally. He had seated himself on the arm of the couch to Art's left, and he had an arm casually draped around her shoulders.

Kenneth had been living in his new apartment for about a week, and he'd had his bed and couch, as well as other essentials with him when Steve and Art had arrived. Kenneth let out a thoughtful 'oh' and then gestured to the door that everything had passed through.

"I hired a moving company to get the majority of the furniture here. As for the boxes, there is a very nice boy that lives a few floors up that helped me; with prompting from his aunt, no doubt. _Peter_. That's his name. He's a nice boy, a _smart_ boy. He introduced me to the best sandwich shop in Queens––or so he says. Delmar's, or something of the sort. It's only a few blocks away from here," Kenneth mentioned, nodding fondly at the boy's name.

"We'll have to give it a look––on our way to the train station, maybe. We should probably get going it we don't want to be late," Steve said, taking a glance at the clock.

He gave Art's shoulder a squeeze while he gulped down a mouthful of his remaining coffee. Art followed suit, draining the mug like she had once downed a pint. The only difference was that the coffee was fairly hot, and caused her face to screw up uncomfortably. It had been an exceedingly bad idea to do that. Steve disappeared from the room to go grab their bags, which had been stored away in the hall. Art rose from the couch and abandoned the mug on the coffee table, clearing her too-warm throat. Across the room her brother was chuckling, a sound vaguely weakened by time.

"I'll make you iced coffee next time," Kenneth teased with a boyish twinkle to his eyes.

Art rolled her eyes and shot him a look from across the room. His expression became a little more solemn, then, while he watched the two soldiers prepare to leave. Art watched his fingers tap anxiously against the arm of his chair, which made _her_ expression fade to something more concerned in nature. When Steve stepped up to her side to hand her her bag, he seemed to notice the younger Knoll's anxious tapping. The two soldiers shared a concerned look before Steve nodded to the younger Knoll in acknowledgement.

"Everything alright, Ken?" he inquired. Kenneth raised the hand that had been doing the tapping and gave a quiet little chuckle. He looked to be ready to wave his dismissal, but the movement paused and he sighed heavily. His hand flopped back down to the arm and he shook his head slowly.

"You're both flying back to Washington tonight, and I know what that means. Soon enough, you'll be… throwing yourselves into hails of gunfire for the greater good… I just worry, is all. About the both of you."

With a quiet tut, Art crossed the room and dropped into a crouch beside her brother's chair. She scooped one of his hands into her own and gave his fingers a squeeze. Her chin dropped to rest atop their clasped hands and a gentle smile appeared on her face.

"Us Knolls, always worrying… I think it's a familial predisposition. It's sweet that you worry, it shows that you care; and I know that if I tell you not to worry, you'll do it anyway. But I can assure you, Kenny, that we're gonna be okay. We're always okay. The mission should be cut and dry, nothing major like what happened last year. Promise." Art stood and kissed Kenny's forehead before she took a moment to sort out his hair and glasses in a sisterly manner.

He chuckled and squeezed her fingers, giving her hand a little shake. The smile on his face returned, though it was small and didn't quite reach his eyes; and those eyes still gleamed with worry. Art knew that no matter how much she assured him they would return safely, he would worry. Kenneth would worry because he had worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. once, and he knew what dangers could potentially lay in wait. He worried because he'd lost her once before.

"I worry because I love you, Artie," he murmured. His voice sounded a little hoarse, a little warbly. Art smiled at him warmly and again swept her fingers through his hair, which was completely grey and peppered with streaks of silver and white.

"I love you too, Kenny."

When Art stepped away from her brother to retrieve her bag, she watched Steve step forward with his hand offered. The two men shared a tight handshake, and Steve nodded to Kenneth with a respectful incline to his head; but despite the formality of such a gesture, there was a fond look on his face.

"It's been good to see you again. I hope that it won't be so long till the next time," Steve said. Kenneth nodded his agreement and placed a hand over their clasped ones. He leaned forward and Steve ducked down so they could speak more privately. Art kept her back to them, but turned her head slightly so she could catch ear of whatever was said next.

"Keep her safe, Steve."

"Always. I promise."

A smile tugged at the corners of Art's mouth. She shouldered her bag before she and Steve made for the door. They said their final goodbyes and offered small waves, but before they stepped through the door to leave, Art pointed at her brother with a pointed look.

"Thank that Peter boy for me!"

OOOO

"How was New York?" inquired Harlowe, as they pulled through a green light. Art hummed in acknowledgement of the question, as she could not yet answer. She was downing a sip of her coffee, which was just a little too sweet for her liking. When she had been in the army she'd taken her coffee as she was given it––black. Harlowe had a reknown sweet-tooth and took his coffee just as sweet as a bowl full of maple syrup. While it was always thoughtful for him to pick up or make coffee for Art whenever they met up in the morning, he often times made it just a little too sweet.

"Seeing Kenny again was great; I never realized just how close we'd become after I woke up till I moved out here. Also, seeing the city _not_ in the aftershocks of a state of emergency was really nice. Everything is starting to slip back into its natural flow."

Harlowe bobbed his head whilst he maneuvered his car around a corner and slowed to a stop to allow a pedestrian across the street. Once they started moving again, he shot her a playful smirk, eyes drifting away from the road for a moment. "And the filming? How was that?"

A groan was pushed from Art's throat, and she scrunched her eyes shut. That groan soon turned into a laugh. "It was… an experience," she giggled. "Five hours in our old uniforms, reading off of… teleprompters, I think they're called. Some of those lines might as well have been written by the folks who wrote the Captain America Adventure Program; we'll be lucky if the kids don't just up and laugh at us."

"Hey, some kids like cheesy humor! I, for one, was always a fan of it. Maybe the cheesiness will drive them to run faster so that one day, they, too, can be just as cheesy as Lieutenant Liberty."

The two laughed good naturedly before the Irishman hissed 'shit' when they hit traffic. They were en route to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s airfields just outside the city, as they were being called in for a new mission. Harlowe had kindly offered to pick Art up, whilst Natasha was off to locate Steve, who had gone for an early morning run. Art had opted out of the run that morning, instead deciding she deserved to sleep in for once. Unfortunately that extra hour of sleep had been interrupted by the shrill ringing of her phone, on which Harlowe's name had been displayed.

"Do you have the mission brief?" Art inquired as she set her coffee into the cup holder. Harlowe's brows shot upwards towards his hairline and he snapped in remembrance. One hand left the steering wheel to point in her general direction.

"Yes! Mission brief is in the glove box, as per usual," he informed. "Well, it contains what information we have _so far._ Rumlow said the information is coming in slow, but we'll be getting more."

Art popped the glove compartment open and withdrew a thin glass tablet. She tapped her fingers against it twice––both times a little harder than necessary––and the screen burst to life. She started to scan through the information whilst subtly bobbing her head to the music playing over the radio. They crawled through traffic slowly and there were a handful of times Harlowe would grumble about wishing his car had a siren. When Art was mostly done with reading through the files on the tablet, she noticed that her ginger haired companion was gnawing at his thumb nail. There was a slight furrow present between his brows. His overall demeanor had become somewhat apprehensive. The tablet fell into her lap whilst her attention became focused on her friend.

"You alright, Richard?" she asked. A moment of quiet passed between them, where the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent merely gave the steering wheel a slight turn so he could switch lanes. "Richard." Again, more silent and a deeper furrow between his brows. With a frown, Art reached over and placed a hand on Harlowe's arm. He jumped and regarded her with arched brows and wide eyes. "Are you okay? You look… worried about something."

There was another pause. Harlowe regarded Art so intently in that quiet moment that it was like he was trying to fully analyze the look on her face. Then shrugged his shoulders dismissively and turned his attention back to the road. "Perfectly fine. Just, uh… tired. Been doing some extra missions with Rumlow lately and it's really just taken it out of me. The man doesn't know the meaning of rest. Been running off coffee and breakfast pastries!" The laugh that followed his words seemed a little forced. He looked back out the windshield and arched both his brows. "Traffic is letting up, finally… Fury won't have our asses for being late, now."

Art shifted in her seat so she was angled towards him, her eyebrows furrowed. "Richard, you know if you need anything… or if you just wanna talk… my door is always open to you."

Harlowe gave a little smile, which brightened his face just a little bit. "Yeah, I know… You're good like that."

A playfully reprimanding hand sailed into his stomach, and Art smiled at him.

"Don't sell yourself short, buddy, you're a good guy. I'd probably be dead if it weren't for you. God, the number of times you've saved my life… if you'd been born around nineteen-nineteen like me, if you'd been in the one-oh-seventh with Steve and I… you would have been a Commando. You do a lot of good, Richard," Art told him, tone serious. She listened to him make a sound in the back of his throat like he didn't quite believe her. But he left it at that. Art turned her attention back to the tablet in her lap. She flicked to the next and last section the brief provided, and failed to notice that Harlowe had cast her a conflicted look, a furrow between his brows.

It wasn't long till Art found herself stood in a S.H.I.E.L.D. regulated aircraft, sweeping out to sea in order to settle a hostage situation. Her distaste for aircrafts still stood, but it wasn't as terrible as it had once been. Whereas a year ago it took all of her strength to get herself onto the helicarrier, it now only took a deep breath and the steeling of her nerves. It still helped, however, to keep herself distracted to an extent, make herself forget she was in a metal can hurtling through the sky. It had been smooth flying for the handful of hours they'd been in the air, and for that Art had been thankful.

"You always looked good in that shade of blue," Steve commented.

Art looked up from tugging on her gloves, a smirk pulling across her face. That smirk turned into a grin when Steve came to lean against the supply crate she was facing. He was smiling crookedly, arms crossed over his chest. He had been referring to the shade of navy blue her stealth uniform was colored. Upon their move to Washington D.C., both soldiers had been issued a stealth suit; said suit had become their go-to option whilst an updated version of their normal suits were worked on. It had been decided that, whilst a pleasant call-back to their original uniforms, they were a bit theatrical. It had also been decided that the bright, spangly red-white-and-blue option wasn't the vest for stealth missions.

The front of Art's suit––which was, indeed, a rich dark blue––was decorated with dulled silver buttons to give it the appearance of her well-known double-breasted tailcoat. The wing patch was still apparent on her left arm, as were her lieutenant bars, though these details were done up in silver. The stripes of white and red that traced her spine made a return appearance, though the red was decidedly muted, and the white had, again, been replaced by silver. The star that had once been located on her right arm now sat between her shoulder blades, briefly interrupting the stripes. Art enjoyed the suit's streamlined nature, and hoped that the next suit would be something similar.

"Have I?" she asked playfully. She finished adjusting the strap at the wrist of her gloves and curled her fingers into fists to ensure the internal armoring still worked. Once it made the a satisfying clicking sound, signaling the plates of armor had linked together, she let her fingers relax and she smirked up at Steve.

Steve inclined his head in a nod, smiling just a bit wider. "Ever since you gave up olive drab for Commando blue."

"Aren't you a charmer?" She grinned at him and placed a hand on her hip. She gave him a subtle once over, a brow rising. "You don't look too bad yourself, Captain." Art nudged his arm with her elbow, subtly bringing attention to his suit, which matched hers in color. Steve beamed and ducked his chin in an action that Art believed was meant to hide the slight flush of pink that had colored the tops of his cheeks.

"Oh, would you both stop flirting?" Harlowe groaned as he passed by. He stopped beside them in order to fit his earpiece around his ear; this gave him ample time to shoot them a look both playful and serious. "It's… strange and unusual to see you both so affectionate right before a mission. What happened to the whole near-stoic demeanor while on business thing?"

Natasha, who was exiting the cockpit, smirked at the conversation as she caught ear of it.

"They're getting more comfortable with modern standards of relationships is what's happening," Natasha, who was exiting the cockpit, commented in passing.

Natasha sent the couple a cheeky smirk whilst sauntering by, which caused the two soldiers to simultaneously roll their eyes––even though she was, indeed correct. There was much to their upbringing and the time in which they lived that affected how they acted in their day-to-day lives. But as time went on, as they found themselves more firmly rooted in this modern age, they became more comfortable with venturing a little further away from older ideals. Of course, much of that would stay firmly rooted, and it would take time till anything completely drastic blossomed; but they were taking steps.

There was a groan––distinctly teasing in nature––that came from Harlowe's direction. He fixed them with a wary look, but the upturn at the corner of his mouth betrayed his playful attitude. "If you two start snogging at the start of every mission, now, I'm going to request to transfer to another task force."

Steve chuckled and twitched his brows upward, a glance quickly shot in Art's direction. She smiled at him broadly and laughed under her breath. Steve offered Harlowe a contemplative look before responding.

"Yeah, we're, uh… we're not there yet," Steve assured the ginger haired man. Harlowe pressed his hands in manner of prayer and looked up at the ceiling of the plane before mouthing 'thank god.' He started to laugh when Art shoved him a little bit. Those hands were then held aloft to display innocence before he made to follow Natasha.

Art snagged Steve's hand and jerked her head in the direction both Harlowe and Natasha had headed in. Runlow, head of the STRIKE force team, was stood in front of a set of monitors, on which was displayed the mission information.

"The goal is a mobile satellite launch platform: _The Lemurian Star_. They were sending up their last pay load when pirates took them ninety-three minutes ago," Rumlow explained, gesturing to specific screens. Steve, who stood with his arms crossed, asked the first question.

"Any demands?"

"A billion and a half."

Art scoffed at the ridiculous number and arched her brows. Rumlow's attention was drawn to her and he inclined his head to indicate he was listening. "Any particular reason they want so much?" she asked.

"Because it's S.H.I.E.L.D," was Rumlow's easy reply. Art and Steve shared a look; they had been told the _Lemurian Star_ was off-course. Not that they had sailed into a restricted area that they had no legal access to.

"So it's not off-course, it's trespassing," Steve cut back in, sounding highly unamused. His expression had gone taut and his voice had fallen flat. Beside him, Natasha cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm sure they have a good reason," she attempted to reason. Steve shot her a mild look with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

"You know, I'm a _little_ tired of being Fury's janitor."

"Relax, it's not that complicated."

Art made a face at Natasha's comment––it _wasn't_ complicated. And for that, they should be thankful. It was a lot easier than trying to shut a portal that had torn through reality over the skies of New York. So with a quiet but resigned sigh, Art lifted her chin and caught Rumlow's attention again.

"What are we looking at? How many pirates?" Art inquired, crossing her arms. Rumlow inhaled deeply as he prepared to give the next stretch of information; there was a more firm look on his face, which led Art to believe that they were getting to the meat of the situation at hand.

"Twenty-five. Top mercs led by this guy," Rumlow turned towards the screen and pulled up the picture of a grim-faced man, "George Batroc. Ex-DGSE, Action Division. He's at the top of Interpol's Red Notice. Before the French demobilized him, he had 36 kill missions. This guy's got a rep for maximum casualties."

"Hostages?" Steve interjected.

"Oh, mostly techs," Rumlow sighed, swiping Batroc's image away. He pulled up the list of hostages and enlarged one specific picture. "One officer––Jasper Sitwell. They're in the galley."

Steve looked down to his hands, tugging on his gloves whilst he avoided eye contact with those around it."What's Sitwell doing on a launch ship? All right, Artemesia and I will sweep the deck and find Batroc. Nat, you kill the engines and wait for instructions. Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to the life pods, get them out. Let's move."

"STRIKE, you heard the Cap––gear up!"

The aircraft was filled with a sudden buzz of activity, as the STRIKE force started to gear up and check their com channels. The craft gave a sudden shift and start as it rapidly began to gain altitude; it was enough of a surprise to send Art's heart lurching and her hand flying out to find the nearest person or object to stabilize herself on.

"You alright there?" Harlowe asked, reaching out to grasp her arm. She was gripping his shoulder painfully tight, and her breathing had become somewhat rapid. Art looked over at him and gave a shaky nod. She flexed her fingers pointedly in order to release her friend from her vice-like grip. Harlowe merely shifted his hand to her shoulder, concern still painted across his features.

"Yeah… I'm still a little jumpy when it comes to turbulence or sudden direction shifts," Art told him. Harlowe nodded and gave her shoulder a squeeze. He offered her a smile before he started to back away to gather his gear.

"I've got your six down there," he reminded warmly. Art beamed at him and nodded in recognition of his sentiment.

"And I've got yours."

" _Secure channel six,_ " Steve's voice buzzed in her ear. Art raised her wrist towards her mouth and activated the com.

"Six secure, Captain," she confirmed, stepping off to the side. She opened the secured crate beside Nat's and removed her gun and holster. Once the gun was checked over, she strapped the holster to her thigh and secured the weapon. It was likely the gun wouldn't come into play, as they didn't want to send the ship into high alert, but it was good back-up if all else failed. Next she extracted Stark's staff and worked on fitting it into its loop at the back of her belt.

"Secure channel seven," Steve checked over his com.

"Seven secure," Natasha replied promptly. She was outfitting herself with her gear, strapping it all on with nimble fingers and practiced movements. "Did you do anything fun on Saturday night?"

"Well, all the guys from my barbershop quartet are dead, so, no. Not really," Steve shot back with a smirk. Natasha rolled her eyes and looked towards Art, who was smirking just like her beau. She then shrugged and shut her gear crate.

"We had dinner at home. Steve cooked and then I became dance instructor for a little bit," she elaborated. Steve shot her a playfully reprimanding look at the mention of 'dance instructor.' Art beamed and winked at him.

 _Coming up on the drop-zone, Cap_ , the pilot informed over the intercom system.

Steve shook his head with a quiet laugh and slammed the button that dropped the ramp. Wind started to whip through the hold, cold and bracing. Natasha looked between the couple with an arched eyebrow.

"You two should actually go _out_ more. Go dancing; I'm sure that there's a recreation center that does forties dance nights," Natasha urged.

Art placed a hand on Nat's shoulder whilst she shrugged on a parachute. "He's not ready for that––he's only just started to not look at his feet."

"You don't have to be a professional to go to a dance. Too scared you'll get shown up by couples who are physically double your age?" The last bit Nat directed at Steve, who was already sauntering towards the end of the ramp, which dropped into the clouds. He turned his head over his shoulder and gave a light shrug.

"Too busy!" he proclaimed before he jumped.

Art rolled her eyes and strapped the parachute pack tightly across her front. Beside her, Rumlow chuckled and shook his head at their captain's antics.

"Was he wearing a parachute?" inquired a startled STRIKE member.

"No. No he wasn't," Rumlow confirmed with a laugh. Art shook her head and offered a fond smile.

"He rarely ever does," she murmured. Art took in a bracing breath and eyed the sloping ramp; jumping out of planes had never been her forté. Puffing out the breath she had just taken in, Art started to strut forward at a brisk pace, before taking up a light jog. Soon enough she encountered the end of the ramp and simply walked right off, the night sky embracing her as she started to fall. The wind whipped past her ears and caused her eyes to water. It was cold. But it reminded her that everything around her, and everything to come, was real––that it was time to get to work.

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**I want to apologize for how long it has been since I have updated this story. I have found it very hard to find a way to properly lead into the events of the film, and how to write the first mission on the Lemurian Star. Once I get past all that, I know it'll be smooth sailing, as those are the bits I have meticulously planned out. But I also hit a stint of horrible writer's block for just about every story I have going. I have been so busy with school and shows that I have rarely had a chance to breath, let alone write. I have no intention to give up on this story, as I love the characters and I want to follow it through to its conclusion.**_

 _ **Normally I would reply to all of your lovely reviews, but in favor of getting this up NOW, I am forgoing it this time around. I want to thank you all for being so patient with me, and for sticking with me through everything, even my irregular updating schedule. Your feedback and enthusiasm genuinely makes my day and drives me to keep writing, even when I feel like I can't write anymore. I love every single one of you.**_

 _ **~Mary**_


	5. Trust

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

5\. Trust

By the time that Art passed through the door of the canteen, the sun had just risen over Washington D.C. There were a few agents dutifully drinking coffee or scarfing down a sandwich, checking their watches for the time. No one in the canteen that early ever looked particularly put-together, and Art was no exception. Her hair, which was coated with brine and sweat, had been shoved into the messiest of buns. It was stiff and gross. Strands hung around her face limply. It was the evidence of a long, stress filled evening. Her eyes stung tiredly. Her body ached as it healed what blows it had been dealt. There was one particular bruise across her ribs that itched rather badly and begged to be soothed. The first two buttons of her suit had been undone, which allowed it to slouch open comfortably. Art's gloves had been shoved into her belt, where they flounced with each step that she took. It was clear that she wasn't at her best. When Art spotted Steve, freshly arrived from the mission, she offered an exhausted smile and let her shoulders slump a little. She smiled a little wider when he raised the steaming cup that had been sitting across from him. The promise of coffee and companionship drew her easily across the room.

"Is Richard okay?" Steve asked. Worry crinkled the space between his brows and his lips were pulled down at the corners.

Art pulled her chair out and sat down heavily. She rubbed her eyes and took a much needed sip of her coffee. While on _The Lemurian Star_ , Harlowe had been jumped by one of the kidnappers. While the Irishman had put up a good fight, he had ended up sprawled out on the ground unconscious and with a head wound. Art had dutifully pulled out of the mission in order to get him to safety; and upon returning to D.C., she'd stayed with him in the medbay.

"He will be. He's got some minor head trauma, but the doctors say he should heal up just fine. I thought he might like a friendly face to wake up to. It can be… jarring to wake up cold and alone in a hospital room, which we both well know," Art said, setting the cup aside. There was a gentle, knowing hum from her companion, who then scooped her hands up with his. His thumb swept over her scarred knuckles repeatedly, sweetly, lovingly. An adoring smile softened his previously worried expression and the crease between his brows disappeared.

"That's my girl; saving people in every form of the word."

Steve then lifted her hands to his lips and he kissed them, head bowed almost reverently. Once his lips retreated, he dropped his forehead to her hands and sighed. Art smiled at him gently, head tilting to the side a little. After letting the moment sit, she extracted her hands from Steve's and cradled his face between them. He lifted his head so their eyes could meet, the full extend of his exhaustion plain on his face. She started to card her fingers through his hair, rumpling the already mussed strands of blonde. The blues of his eyes disappeared behind his eyelids as he enjoyed the relaxing sensation.

"How'd the rest of the mission go?"

Any ounce of relaxation and calm disappeared from Steve's face. He sat a little straighter and pulled her hand away from his cheek; he kept it clasped in his own, their fingers laced together. "We got everyone out," he informed, slipping back into the steely, commanding tone of Captain America. Art's brows pulled together and her eyes narrowed curiously; Steve's shoulders had tensed in a way she did not expect to be paired with such good news. She shook their joined hands and gave his fingers a squeeze.

"You don't sound too happy about it," Art laughed quietly. She watched the muscles in Steve's jaw jump as his teeth clenched. It was the definitive sign of his displeasure at the situation.

"As it would turn out, Natasha was on a different assignment; she was never there to help us. She missed getting to a rendezvous point and Batroc got past us. She jeopardize the whole operation just to download S.H.I.E.L.D. intel."

Art gaped at him silently. She sat back in her chair and let her eyelids flutter in incredulity. Upon processing the information, she felt two sides of herself warring with each other. Part was the disbelief of a friend who had found out they'd been lied to, the other was the incredulity of Lieutenant Liberty upon discovering a comrade had, essentially, betrayed them. She had put their team at risk, a risk that they could not have prepared an eventuality for. That, perhaps, was the worst of it. It wasn't that Natasha hadn't told them, it was that she had inadvertently endangered everyone's safety; she had allowed herself to be inserted into their mission's plans––in an integral position––and then disappeared when she was needed most. Natasha was very loyal to her friends, and would do most anything to protect them. But she was also very loyal to her job.

With exhausting returning full-force and unabashed, Art pressed her hands to her eyes and groaned. Nothing could be easy. Not even a mission that had previously seemed so cut-and-dry. "What kind of information? What could possibly be so important that she jeopardize the lives of our entire team?"

Steve offered a resigned sigh and fixed her with a flat look.

"Fury gave her direct orders. Fury had her lie to us."

Fury. The man who had lied to them about recreating old HYDRA weapons. Lied about it to get them on board with the Avengers scheme. It brought back tangled memories of what had happened on the helicarrier. Memories of how betrayed they had felt. How _used_ they'd felt. They had been ignorant to the times and confused about so much; but now, they had adjusted, and they were not going to let themselves be used again. Art rubbed at her eyes and let out a long, slow exhale.

"Looks like we'll have to have a little chat with the Director."

OOOO

"You just _can't_ stop yourself from lying, can you?" Steve bit out as he and Art strode into Fury's office. A heavy attitude festered in his tone, making it blatantly clear how he felt about the presented situation.

"I didn't lie, Agent Romanoff had a different mission than you," replied Fury. He had his back to the two super-soldiers as he remained seated and facing the view of D.C. through his window wall. Both soldiers approached his desk, walking with squared shoulders, tense expressions, and loosely curled fingers.

"Which you didn't feel obliged to share."

"I'm not _obliged_ to do anything."

Art crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. "But you still withheld information; you are aware just how severely that has backfired in the past? And the consequences of it?" she inquired.

"Those hostages could have died, Nick," Steve pointed out lowly.

Fury turned in his chair and fixed Steve with a decided composed expression. "And I sent the the greatest soldiers in history to make sure that didn't happen," he responded easily.

"Soldiers _trust_ each other, that's what makes it an army. We're not a bunch of guys running around shooting guns––"

"The last time _I_ trusted someone," Fury started slowly, rising to his feet with hands braces atop the desk, "I lost an eye." He and Steve had a short staring match, filled with a tense silence. "Look. I didn't want you––either of you––doing anything you weren't comfortable with. Agent Romanoff is comfortable with _everything_."

"I can't lead a mission when the people I'm leading have a mission of their own," Steve dictated succinctly. Fury cocked his head to the side a little.

"It's called compartmentalization. Nobody spills the secrets because nobody knows them all."

Art laughed quietly and gestured vaguely over her shoulder. She raised an eyebrow at the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., who raised his own right back.

"And look how well that worked out _last_ time. It nearly destroyed the Avengers Initiative before it had a chance to come to fruition," she recalled, incredulous laughter still lacing her voice. Fury shrugged as though he wasn't bothered by the shit show that she had reminded him of.

"But it didn't, if I remember correctly," he drawled.

"Nobody knows all of the secrets… nobody _except you_ ," Steve murmured, a wry smile playing across his face.

Silence filled the room once more. Fury slowly straightened up, inhaling steadily. He seemed to compose himself before he darted his eyes between the two soldiers on the other side of his desk. Steve and Art stared right back, a decidedly united front against an issue they took to strongly.

"You're wrong about me. I _do_ share––I'm nice like that. You want in on the secrets? I'll let you in on the secrets. Follow me, Rogers, Knoll," Fury instructed, stepping out from behind his desk. Steve and Art shared a look before they followed him into the hall and to the elevator. Upon entering, Fury gave a voice command. "Insight bay."

 _Captain Rogers and Lieutenant Knoll do not have access to Project Insight,_ informed the A.I.. Above the panel of buttons, Steve and Art's official S.H.I.E.L.D. portraits flashed, with the red word 'DENIED' flashing over them.

"Director Override––Fury, Nicholas J.."

Steve and Art leaned up against one of the handrails, Steve with his hands clasped over his abdomen and Art with arms crossed over her chest. She watched as the glass elevator started to descend, the ground getting closer as they smoothly passed floor after floor. No one spoke for a moment. It was dead silent, without even the tinging sound to inform them of every passing floor.

"You know, they used to play music," Steve said. Art smiled and chuckled, recalling the slow, almost hypnotic instrumentals that had played in elevators and building lobbies back in the forties. If elevators played music now, the tunes were either cheesy or over-played ditties from the radio.

"It difused tension, made sharing a cramped space with strangers less awkward," Art added on, a smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Yeah… my grandfather used to operate one of these things for forty years. My grandad worked in a nice building. Got good tips. He'd walk home every night with a roll of ones stuffed in his lunch bag. He'd say 'hi,' people would say 'hi' back. Time went on and the neighborhood got rougher. He'd say 'hi,' they'd say 'keep on steppin'.' Granddad got to gripping that lunch bag a little tighter," Fury described. There was a fond smile of remembrance for his grandfather on his face.

"He ever get mugged?" Steve asked curiously.

Fury gave a scoffed chuckle, smile becoming a smirk. "Every week some punk would say 'what's in the bag?'"

"What'd he do?"

"He'd show 'em. A bunch of crumpled ones… and a loaded twenty-two magnum. Yeah… granddad _loved_ people. But he didn't trust them very much."

It was then that they disappeared below ground level, the interior elevator lights the only thing illuminating the small space for a brief moment. Then another source of light flooded through the glass walls, which prompted Art to turn and see what was on the other side of the elevator shaft. What she saw caused her expression to go slack. She flung her hand against Steve's arm, silently telling him to turn his ass around and see what she was seeing. When he did, his face exactly matched hers.

"Yeah, I know," Fury started, tone casual, "they're a little bit bigger than a twenty-two."

Behind them was a cavernous, extensive loading bay, filled with helicarriers––three of them from what Art could see. They were absolutely massive and armed with some kind of gun ports. Other aircrafts were being lifted by cranes to be deposited atop the larger crafts, where they sat in neat rows, ready for use. Art exhaled a little shakily as her eyes roamed the expanse of the loading bay.

"Jesus Christ…" she muttered. It looked like they were getting ready to go to war.

" _This_ is Project Insight––three next-generation hellicariers synced to a network of targeting satellites," Fury introduced as they stepped out of the elevator.

"Launched from the Lemurian Star," Steve surmised.

"Once we get them in the air, they never need to come down. Continuous sub-orbital flight, courtesy of our new repulsor engines." Fury gestured to the mentioned engines as they passed under the helicarrier, all of them craning their heads back a little to stare up at them.

Art snorted a little. "Let me guess––Tony?"

Fury smirked. "He had a few suggestions once he got an up-close look at our old turbines." They ascended a metal grated staircase that led them to stand on a slowly moving platform that gradually took them across the hangar. Art grasped the railings and looked up at the frightening arsenal of guns under the belly of the ship. Her brows scrunched together and her lips pulled into a mild frown. "These new long-range precision guns can eliminate 1,000 hostiles a minute. The satellites can read a terrorist's DNA before he steps outside his spider hole. We're gonna neutralize a lot of threats before they even happen."

"Thought the punishment usually came after the crime," Steve mentioned behind Art.

"We can't afford to wait that long," Fury replied.

"Who's 'we'?"

"After New York I convinced the World Security Council we needed a quantum surge in threat analysis. For once, we're way ahead of the curve."

"By holding a gun to everyone on earth and calling it protection."

"You know… I read those SSR files." Art turned around at the mention of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, the familiar acronym snagging her attention. Fury looked slowly between Steve and Art now that he had their attention. His eyes narrowed a little. "The 'Greatest Generation'? You guys did some nasty stuff." The platform came to a halt.

"Yeah. We _compromised_. Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But we did it so that people could be _free_ ," Steve rebutted, expression tense.

"We never pretended that we were perfect," Art pointed out, gesturing between herself and Steve. "We did shit we're not proud of. And reading back on that stuff _now_ , eighty years later? Hindsight is a bitch for us––we get to see the unadulterated repercussions of our actions. Some of it wasn't so good, yeah, but sometimes we did what we had to do."

"This isn't freedom. This is _fear_." Steve pointed up at the helicarriers and their guns.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. takes the world as it _is_ , now how we would like it to be. I think it's damn near past time for you to get with the program, Cap. And you too, Lieutenant."

Steve grit his teeth as another staring match ensued.

"Don't hold your breath."

As Steve started to march away, Art lingered behind, staring up at the helicarrier. She pointed up at its numerous guns, both big and small. She locked eyes with Fury with furrowed brows. "If this is scaring _me_ ––scarring _us_ … then that's saying something, Director."

OOOO

Art sat cross-legged in the middle of her and Steve's bed, avidly reading a rather dense book. Dense in the sense that it totaled some four hundred pages. And it was no surprise it was so long; it was a biography–– _her_ biography. It had been strange to discover that there were books detailing her life, that there were _multiple_ books that detailed her life. Or, rather, the parameters of what her life _had_ bee when she'd been considered dead. So, possessed with an overwhelming sense of curiosity, Art had bought a couple and would pull one out to read every once and awhile. She had quickly come to realize that some biographies were heavily skewed, some were misinformed, and others, still, had managed to detail things with almost frightening accuracy. But no matter the quality of the book, she was always struck heavily with nostalgia. The biography that she'd opted to read was the best that Art had yet to read. It was objective. It was well-researched with few mistakes. It had made her smile at fond memories, cringe at not-so-happy moments, and hum in interest as a quote from someone she had known popped up.

Art had just started a new chapter when she heard the door open. Steve had taken a shower in preparation to go to bed, a shower that he had just finished. He had a towel slung over his shoulder and his day clothes balled up in his hands. Those clothes were then walked to and deposited in the laundry hamper in the corner of the room. Art sighed and flipped a page, pulling a face.

"Is this… narcissistic?" Art asked from her spot on the bed. Her face pinched as she considered her own question. Steve looked at her with raised brows, ruffling his damp hair with the towel.

"Is what narcissistic?" he inquired for clarification.

Art raised the book that she had been reading so he could see the cover. "Reading my biography." The cover was a composite image of one of the last photographs taken of her prior to the war, and one taken of her for military records. These two images had been split down the middle and put side-by-side, a ripped paper effect separating the pictures. It was titled 'What's In A Name? A Complete Biography of Artemesia Knoll.'

" _One_ of your biographies. One of your _partial_ biographies––you've still got a lot of life to live," Steve corrected. He moved to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping beneath him. She rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses, letting the book flop back open to where she had been reading.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Why would it be narcissistic?"

"I dunno… Maybe because I want to see how I was perceived? Not all biographies paint someone in a positive light."

"You're curious, that's all." Steve shrugged and eased himself onto the bed a little more. Art felt his lips make contact with her shoulder, the kiss light but lingering. "Where in your life are you at?"

"Deployment and my first few months in France," she responded. Steve curled his arms around her middle and rested his cheek on her shoulder.

"Read to me?" he asked gently. He was tired, she could hear it in his voice. The last day and a half had been nothing but stress-filled, and he was looking for some kind of reprieve. A reprieve from the heaviness of duty and responsibility and stress. Art smiled and kissed the top of his head lovingly.

"Sure. Let me see…" Art dragged her finger along the page till she found her spot. "Right. Here we go. ' _Within the first three months of her deployment in France, Artemesia had made quite the name for herself_.'" Steve chuckled at this. Feigning insult, Art clucked her tongue and playfully elbowed him in the ribs. "Oh, like you started your military career on a good foot Mister-I-Disobeyed-Philips-For-The-Greater-Good. Let's grab one of your biographies and see what they have to see about that; if you're going to be snide, I'm not going to read to you, Steven." Her tone was light and teasing, though she snapped the book shut like she was being deadly serious.

Steve, still chuckling, shifted his weight till he dragged Art backwards so they were reclined against their pillows. They both shifted to find a new, comfortable position. Steve wound up on his side, arms still curled around Artie, and his head rested on her shoulder. Art held the book in front of her face, while her other hand threaded fingers through his hair soothingly. "Please, continue; I won't laugh again."

"Laugh all you like, I did some crazy shit; then again, you were there for a lot of it," she reminded with a bright smile. Steve chuckled warmly and pressed a little closer. "Let's see… ' _Within the first three months of her deployment in France, Artemesia had made quite the name for herself. Her superior officers took note of her striking ability to follow orders and how well she and her fellow soldiers got along. Despite these shining commendations, Artemesia's record was not without its demerits. Colonel Phillips did note in official documents that Artemesia––still known as Arthur to him––did sometimes question orders. Though it was noted that often times these were questions regarding the safety of her comrades. But through all of this, Artemesia had a steady shoulder to lean on––that of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. Still thick as thieves, these friends rose through the ranks side-by-side. Barnes was known to be a mischief maker and records show that he shared similar demerits to Artemesia. They were known as the Dynamic Duo by those in the 107th, and were rarely without the other's company. They trusted each other implicitly.'_ "

Art paused there. She continued to thread her fingers through Steve's hair, toying with his blonde locks softly.

"Trust…" Steve murmured.

A stunted half-chuckle was voiced at the back of Art's throat. "That's the word of the day, isn't it?"

"People used to trust each other more." There was genuine sadness in the statement, Steve's voice quiet and tired. No matter how much they adjusted to the modern age, something always seemed to throw a curveball at them.

"Yeah… but look at what's happened between when we were born and now––a lot of shit's happened. Some people have reason to mistrust, but it's a shame that so many people have decided to take it as their natural disposition," Art replied just as quietly. She dog-eared the corner of the page she'd stopped reading on and let the book fall shut.

They were quiet for a moment. Steve sighed gently against her shoulder.

"Do you ever have days where you miss home more than anything?" Steve asked quietly. By 'home' Art knew he wasn't talking about her neighborhood in New York or his old apartment in Brooklyn. He was talking about the forties, the time that they had been so rudely removed from. A time that they would always have one foot firmly rooted in, no matter how long they had been in or how much they had become used to the twenty-first century. Art smiled sadly and turned her head to kiss Steve's forehead, lips lingering at his hairline.

"All the time," she quietly admitted. "I miss it whenever the radio comes on and the music isn't Bing Crosby. I miss it when I see boys dressed in baggy pants and wrinkled shirts. I miss it when I see just how much of Kenny's life I didn't get to see. I… miss it when I think about Bucky. And I think I miss it most when I know that _you_ miss it, too…"

Steve shifted a little, propped himself up on his arm, and frowned down at her. There was a crease between his brows, one that only appeared when he was _really_ troubled about something.

"You don't have to hide that, you know," he told her, voice soft and gentle. Art's lips pulled into a melancholy smile.

"Gotta stay strong, right?"

"Not if it makes you sad. Not if it hurts you."

After another quiet moment, she set the book aside and placed the now free hand on Steve's shoulder. With a gentle push, Art urged him onto his back and shifted a little so she was laid atop his chest. Steve had placed his hands on her hips, this thumbs resting just over the waistband of her lounge pants. She lifted her weight off of him a little, bracing an arm on the pillow beside his head; her fingers started to trace over his eyebrows, his cheek bones, the slope of his nose, and the curve of his lips. It was a feather-light touch. She was always so captivated by the pure, natural beauty that was Steve Rogers. He watched her with shining blue eyes, quiet as she caressed his face. A smile started appear on Art's face.

"I trust you, you know." Art ducked her head just slightly and kissed him. "With my heart…" she murmured before kissing him a second time. "With my love…" A third kiss. "With my life."

Steve snaked an arm around her waist while the other rose in order to clasp her cheek. He met her gaze with such an intense intimacy that Art lost her breath for a moment. "And I trust you. With my heart… with my love… and with my life. I have for the longest time… And I promise you that I will do all I can to always protect you."

Art felt her eyes get a little teary. She laid her head down over his heart and listened to its steady beating. With her eyes falling shut, she relayed similar sentiments. "And I will protect you, Steve Rogers, with all of my heart."

And while they laid there in comfortable silence, finally at rest, they both seemed to understand the unspoken subtext to their words: they loved and protected each other with all of their hearts––and they would lay down their life for the other in a heartbeat.

OOOO

That afternoon found the two super-soldiers at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. A portion of the lower floor had been allocated for a new exhibit––on them. It was, perhaps, the only thing weirder than having multiple published biographies about one's life. Inside, a display of history waited for them. A history that didn't _seem_ like history to Steve and Art––it was a history that was _home_ to them. Such was why they had been so apprehensive to visit. Initially, they had been meant to attend the opening of the exhibit, but had to forgo it due to a mission. Ever since then, it had been a trip they'd been pretending they weren't putting off. What Art was most worried about was the fact that everything in that exhibit had the power to be devastatingly nostalgic. They would be surrounded by objects and pictures and videos of a time that didn't seem so far removed. The two had so carefully immersed themself in the twenty-first century, but home, _true_ home, to them, would always be the forties. But reading just that single excerpt from Art's biography had spurred them to bite the bullet and finally take a gander; it was a day to feel homesick.

Both Art and Steve had done their best to appear as inconspicuous as possible; the last thing they needed was to be overwhelmed by excited museum goers while they were already overwhelmed. So they'd dressed in their civies, which drew no attention to them, and donned baseball caps. The caps didn't obscure their faces totally, but did give them the advantage to duck their heads and hide from view. Side-by-side, walking hand-in-hand, they just seemed like a couple on a trip to the museum.

The exhibit entrance was buttressed by a wall that said: "Welcome Back, Cap, Welcome Back, Lieu." Much to Art's playful chagrin, people had taken a liking to Tony's abbreviation of her rank, and had started to use it just as often as he did. The physical entrance way was flanked by two silhouettes––one of Steve and one of Art. Steve's silhouette, to the left, was a soft grey-blue, with the famous white star on his chest, and his signature shield of red, white, and blue on his arm. A set of silver letters over-lapped the image and read: CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE LIVING LEGEND AND SYMBOL OF COURAGE. To the right of the door, Art's silhouette––also grey-blue––bared a white star on the shoulder and two white bars just below it. Braced beside the silhouette, held tightly in hand, was the staff that Tony had made her, its top and bottom striped in its patriotic colors. The over-lapped silver letters read: LIEUTENANT LIBERTY: THE LIVING LEGEND AND SYMBOL OF HOPE.

 _Symbols to the nation, heros to the world. The stories of Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty are ones of honor, bravery, and sacrifice,_ a recording recited as Steve and Art passed through the entrance. A gorgeous mural was painted on a wall they now walked beside, depicting the two soldiers, in their spangled, original uniforms, saluting a rippling american flag. Art squeezed Steve's hand as they slowly entered the first section, all about the starts of their journeys.

 _Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare. One that would transform him into the world's first super-soldier._

A slate grey wall displayed a photograph of Steve, pre-serum, at boot camp. It was followed by a photograph of him post-serum, and both were accompanied by information regarding his height and weight:

PRE-SERUM:

Weight: 95 lbs.

Height: 5'4''

POST-SERUM:

Weight: 240 lbs.

Height: 6'2''

Never having actually seen the numbers before, Art narrowed her eyes at the wall and wished she'd brought her glasses. "That must've been a shock," she murmured. "Five-four to six-two?"

"Stumbled a bit, yeah," Steve agreed. He inhaled deeply and let it out slow, recalling the day he'd changed. "Had to get used to it fast, though."

Art hummed and recalled the story that he'd told her of running through the streets of New York barefoot, chasing after a HYDRA agent in a car. It was a lot more exciting than her being tested in a S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility to see the extend of what her serum had done. The two passed an electronic display that shifted between an image of pre-serum Steve in uniform, and post-serum Steve in uniform, comparing the difference in size.

Perfectly adjacent was a slate grey wall that bared an image of Art in her nurse's uniform, hair perfectly curled and pinned, make-up to the standard of the time. Below it was a photograph of herself in military uniform, hair shorn short and dress-uniform perfect.

 _Stationed as a nurse on the homefront, Artemesia Knoll took initiative to do more and enlisted in the army in place of Arthur Kensington. She utilized his name and papers to gain a spot in the 107th Infantry Regiment. This would set her on the path that eventually led to her joining Captain Rogers in the pages of American History._

Much like the display that shifted between the two versions of Steve, there was one to compare how different she prior to joining the military and after joining. There was no vast change in size or height like Steve's, but there was a distinct difference in how she carried herself. Out of uniform, in a dress, she stood with her head slightly tilted, shoulders relaxed, weight shifted to one side. In uniform, her shoulders were squared, her chin raised, and her posture perfect.

Just as they turned away in order to move on, Art spotted a little boy gaping at them wide-eyed. Art smiled at him and offered a small wave, hand hovering by her hip. Steve lifted a finger to his lips, which were gently quirked in a smile. The boy nodded, almost as though he was in a trance, and watched as the true Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty slipped into the crowd of the exhibit. They passed through a hall dedicated to the rescue in Azzano, Italy, where Steve and Art had first met. Just beyond that hall, on a pedestal, was Steve's motorcycle. The paint was old and scuffed in a couple places, but it was, without a doubt, the original two-wheeled vehicle that Steve had made such great use of. Steve lingered there for a moment, a melancholy gaze locked on it.

While he remained there for a quiet moment, Art peeled off to look at a display case just behind them. Inside was the binder vest that Howard had made for her, in all its beat-up glory. It was displayed on the torso of a mannequin, which was surrounded by original sketches in Howard Stark's own hand, notes on what materials he would need, and even the page on which Peggy had jotted down her measurements. It was clear that the binder had seen better days, the fabric was torn in some spots and the color was faded; but that was to be expected with what it had been put through. It had been a marvelous bit of hardware, and very useful, but Art was very, _very_ glad she no longer needed to wear it. At the bottom of the glass, in frosted letters, Art read where it all had come from:

 _Vest Donated by: S.H.I.E.L.D. Archives_

 _Sketches and Notes Donated by: Tony Stark, Stark Industries_

Art smirked and shook her head. It made sense that Tony had dumped a lot of his father's stuff on the Smithsonian; and it made sense that he hadn't said a word about any of it to Steve or Art. With one last look at the binder vest, Art joined back up with Steve and followed the crowd to a most impressive display.

Across one massive wall was another breathtaking mural. Against the backdrop of the American flag, the Howling Commandos were painted heroically in astounding detail. Everyone was there in a vague v-formation with Steve at point, Bucky to his right and Art to his left, Falsworth and Dugan, Jim and Gabe, and Jacques. In that exact formation, on the a raised platform, were a number of mannequins wearing the Commandos' uniforms.

Art and Steve stood in the middle of an ever-shifting crowd, staring at the display before them. There were tears in Art's eyes as she took it all in. It was incredibly moving to see the Commandos honored like the heros they were. She let her eyes dance across each uniform, taking in every exact detail that she could still remember. They were all recreations, she knew that; it was obvious that Bucky's uniform could never have been recovered, and aspects of the other original uniforms were displayed elsewhere in the exhibit.

 _Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: taking down HYDRA, the Nazi rogue science division._

When they turned away from what seemed to be the centerpiece of the exhibit, they were greeted by a familiar face frosted onto glass. Bucky, with hair mussed and a serious expression, stared at them unblinkingly. Steve's hand tightened around Art's, just as she curled hers around his tighter. They slowly approached the display titled: A Fallen Comrade.

 _Best friends since childhood, James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable, on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes and Knoll, who met in basic training and rose to the rank of sergeant side-by-side, were equally as inseparable. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country._

A screen beneath the display bared black-and-white footage from that famous documentary. There was footage of Steve, Art, and Bucky talking over a map, expressions serious as they talked over battle plans. There was footage of Steve and Bucky laughing in a moment of light-heartedness. Then there was footage of Bucky playfully rough-housing with Art in the mess tent, his arm looped about her neck as they both grinned and laughed.

A saddened smile appeared on Art's face as the footage restarted its loop and cycled through again. Instinctively, she wanted to say 'he should be here,' but knew that wouldn't have been a correct well-wish. Even if he hadn't fallen from the train, she and Steve would still be there, in the twenty-first century; if anything, she should say 'we should still be there.' But there was no changing the fact that, either way, they would be without their best friend. And to wish him there, with them, at that very moment would be wishing him the pain that came with the serum. With a silent tug of Steve's hand and quiet 'let's go,' the two moved on, eyes lingering on Bucky's face, forever frozen in time.

It was there that they split up again, with Steve ducking into a room where a series of old interviews was being played and Art continuing to circle the floor. It wasn't long before she entered a relatively small room, walls all slate grey, in the center of which was a tall glass display case. In that case was a mannequin, all done up in a very familiar uniform. There, right in front of her, was her original Howling Commandos uniform. Art hadn't seen it since she'd woken up. It wasn't very pretty to look at anymore: the color was a little faded, the boots were scuffed to hell, and both the wing patch and the lieutenant's bars were yellowed. But, most notably, there was a disgustingly large patch of blood on the left shoulder and upper-portion of the chest. The bloodied fabric was dark and stiff.

 _Injected with a modified super-soldier serum, Artemesia found herself trapped in HYDRA's clutches. It would not be till she was removed from the ice seventy years later that she would realize just what had been done to her in Schmidt's lab._

With arms crossed over her chest, Art slowly walked the length of the room, eyes finally torn away from her uniform. Display cases set into the walls bared objects such as the Gewehr 98 she'd had when they'd crashed, the picture of Kenny she'd kept in her jacket, and the condolence letters sent to her family––both the official baring Arthur Kensington as her name, and the more personal one with her birth name. While she moved through the room, Art gently massaged the scar at the crook of her neck. Eventually, she looped around the room and came to stop directly in front of her uniform. Art's eyes lingered on the blood stain. She recalled, vaguely, slouching dizzily through the halls of Schmidt's HYDRA base, blood loss making her head spin.

But then Art remembered something that made her brows furrow––she had seen someone. Someone who stood by and watched as blood poured through her fingers; watched as she wavered on her feet and struggled to keep conscious. In the haze of the memory, clouded by time and distorted by the state she had been in, she could only recall that she'd thought the figure had been very, very real. But it had disappeared so quickly that she had convinced herself it was a hallucination. Afterall, Art thought as the memories started to fade again, what sort of person had a metal arm?

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**I made a pact with myself that I wasn't going to get this chapter up until after I saw Infinity War; and I was way behind the curve on that, and saw it the other day. So I finally got this chapter banged out, feel a lot more inspired, and hope to get the next one up soon. Things will really kick off and I feel like that it'll be easier to keep writing once the ball is rolling. Also, I had way too much fun with the Smithsonian scene, sorry about that!**_

 _ **Review Replies!**_

 **Nina fo life:** _I really wanted to connect Spiderman to this story somehow, so I thought giving Kenny a change of scenery might be the way to do it. I hope to get some stuff with Peter in it in the future. And Kenny's gettin' up there in age, but he's hanging on! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **emmagnetised:** _I actually think that I will include a nice dance hall scene later on, because I feel like that would be a blast to write and a great setting to put them in. I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **LMarie99:** _Thank you! I hope that you enjoyed the newest chapter!_

 **Evaline101:** _Thank you! I hope the new chapter was worth the wait!_

 **BigBangVIP:** _I really hope to get the next chapter up soon because shit is gonna take off. We've got Fury's big mishap coming up, so everything's gonna start ramping up! Thanks again! I hope you enjoyed the chapter!_

 **Kimberly:** _I cannot wait to write the Winter Soldier into this chapter. It is going to be an emotional roller coaster from start to finish, and it's going to be amazing; I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **The girl with no life:** _Harlowe's clearly got something going on, but it's yet to be seen what that is––we'll know soon. I really like writing Kenny. He's a sweetheart; and I really wanted to connect Peter to this story somehow, so he'll probably be helping Kenny out with house work like the friendly neighborhood Spider Man he is! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Natalie:** _There is a lemon scene in the works, but it isn't any time terribly soon; the events of this particular movie sort of see them on the run for a bit._

 **Guest 1:** _It's interesting to try and strike the right balance of romance with this story; because their lives are so crazy and hectic that it would be hard for them to have conventional dates or outings. So it's always fascinating to figure out how their romance bleeds into, say, the fight scenes, or how their idea of a date mostly consists of just getting to spend an hour together on the couch, half asleep and quiet. But I'm happy that you love that this isn't just a pure romance novel, focusing only on that––because there is so much that influences them as people and how all of that affects their relationships, with each other and others. Harlowe's got something going on, and all shall be revealed soon! I am so excited to write Artie into the Winter Soldier, I have a lot planned. And there is a sex scene in the future, I promise; it's aaaaallll planned out. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **anonymouscsifan:** _I fell in love with writing Kenny, so I just had to put him into this story before shit starts to go down; and I love Peter just as much, and hope to write him in at some point, too. And Steve and Artie are definitely "getting with the times" and flirting a bit more, which will be fun when they're back around the Avengers again. I have so much planned for TWS and I'm really excited to write it! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Alera33:** _That's what I've always loved about Steve––is that, despite the super strength and enhanced abilities, he's just a person. He's got a temper, he's got opinions, he's got flaws. And it's so interesting to see how those cause him to react to certain situations. I'm very flattered that you've enjoyed this story so much and that you've enjoyed reading it; I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Gilyflower:** _I hope you enjoyed the update! Thanks again!_

 **Richard Trevelyan:** _Thank you so much! I love the MCU, too (obviously) and I have a blast analysing it, fitting the pieces together, and that's been part of the fun while writing these stories. I love getting to go in-depth with this universe while writing Artie, and I'm glad that you've enjoyed her as a character! The Bucky reunion is infinitely approaching, and I'm SO excited for it; emotions are gonna run wild. The HYDRA situation is gonna be devastating for them. And I'm glad that you've paid attention to the weird mind-stuff that's been going on with Art. That'll pay off. Thank you so much for your lovely review! I hope that you've enjoyed the newest chapter, just as much as you have enjoyed the story so far! Thanks again!_

 **Lovin It:** _I will definitely get more Matt into the story once Artie and Steve are back in New York prior to Age of Ultron; I've always liked writing them because they definitely know something is up with the other, but they don't want to press because they respect their privacy. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Heh309:** _I really wanted to get this chapter up sooner but I had intense writer's block up till last week; school was kicking my ass and I was very frightened that I was going to fail a couple of my classes. But I'm on break, now, and I hope to keep writing now that I'm back in the swing of it! I'm glad that you've enjoyed the story so far and hope you come back to read more! Thanks again!_

 **monkeybaby:** _Thank you; I'm glad you've enjoyed it!_

 **Guest 2:** _I'm back! The Bucky reunion swiftly approaches (sooner than you think ;) ) Thanks again! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!  
_ _ **And thank you to those that read and added to their follows/favorites! It means a lot!**_

 _ **That's it for now! Genuinely sure that I'm going to get the next chapter up very soon, because once shit kicks off… all my plans come into play! Thanks again!**_

 _ **~Mary**_


	6. Stuck on You

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

6\. Stuck on You

It was long ago realized that Peggy Carter and Artemesia Knoll were cut from the same cloth, a cloth rare to their time. Despite a rocky start to their friendship, they'd found solidarity in one another, and had developed a once in a lifetime sort of friendship. They'd bonded over their frustrations of being though less of because of their sex and they'd teased the boys when they would gape at them after physically knocking someone back in line. They had shared many lengthy conversations about life before the war, what they wanted to do after it ended, and indulged in what 'girl talk' they could as a momentary escape from the horrors of gunfire and pain. It was a friendship that both woman had lamented when it had been cut short; and it was a friendship picked up again with relative ease. Though, Peggy had lived a long life and now suffered from the side effects of age. She now lived in a nursing home in the D.C. area, and both Art and Steve visited when they got the chance. Though it was rare that they ever saw her together in the same room. Peggy suffered with memory issues. Some days, things were good and she could recall previous visits that the two super soldiers had made; others, it was like she was seeing them for the first time. It was heartbreaking, and it took its emotional toll on all three, but Steve and Art couldn't bring themselves to simply forget about one of their best friends.

That day, the doctors had said that it would be best for Steve and Art to visit separately, as not to overwhelm her. The smile that Peggy had given Art upon her entering the room was so fond and so sweet. Every trip that she made, Art would always take the time to marvel and point out that Peggy still looked beautiful. Her silvered hair was always beautifully laid out around her face in gentle curls and waves. The wrinkles on her face were evidence of times of laughter and happiness, and creased with the trials that had made her so strong. The story of her long, fulfilled life was written on her face, and Art thought that was beautiful. Peggy, of course, would always wave this off with a time-worn hand, laughing gently in the back of her throat.

"You know," Art had said with a smile, "your eyes haven't aged a day. You've still got that mischievous look in them, ready to clock a soldier cross the face for being a fat-head."

Peggy laughed, a familiar and long-missed smile pulling across her face.

"If I recall, you did that quite often as well," she pointed out. Her voice had aged, but it was still undeniably _hers_. Art laughed as well, crossing her legs and leaning forward on the raised knee. She quirked a brow and let her lips slip to the side in a smirk.

"Yeah, but it was more impressive when you did it; all the guys thought I was a man, so it made more of a statement when you went around doling out a couple of hits."

"But those who knew you were a woman… they were always impressed. Howard Stark only ever spoke highly of you, especially after the fact. If you'd stayed around much longer, I think Steve might've had to ward him off a little stronger," Peggy teased, a sly look in her eyes. Her hand dropped atop Art's and her fingers curled and squeezed––not very tightly, but they did squeeze. Art smiled, albeit shyly, and shook her head a little.

"I doubt it," she chuckled.

"That man very well may have been smitten with you; he was an outrageous flirt," Art snorted at this, recalling Howards bright grins, cheeky winks, and compliments, "but he spoke of you with such respect and fondness."

"And between Howard and Steve, who do you think would win that fight?"

Both women laughed, imagining a fist fight between the suave Howard Stark and the star spangled Captain America. It was fairly clear who the winner would be.

"We all missed you so much…" Peggy quietly mused. "Dugan and the lads, they kept fighting in yours and Steve's names, you know; had the honor to join in on the fun once. Oh, but Howard and I, here on the homefront after the war… there were so many things we wished you two could've seen, could've done. You both would have been a great help dealing with the threats that popped up here in the States."

Art flipped her hand over and squeezed Peggy's fingers, smiling proudly at the woman reclined in bed. A quiet, fond laugh sounded in the back of Art's throat.

"But _you_ dealt with all that. You helped found S.H.I.E.L.D., Peggy, that's _amazing_. It… keeps Steve and I going, despite some of the bullshit that gets pulled. You should be so proud of everything you've done; I know Steve and I are. It would have been… _wonderful_ to have been there with you, but…" Art trailed off, the words 'we weren't' sticking in her throat.

A sad smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. Some days it was harder to remember that she hadn't lived her life as it had been meant to live; and she'd been on a serious melancholy nostalgia trip that day. A quiet tutting came from the bed. Art looked to her friend to find that Peggy's brows were furrowed and her eyes had become sad.

"I so wish you would have been there; and I so regret that you and Steve did not get the chance to live your lives the way they should have been. But I am filled with inexpressible happiness that you both have gotten a second chance. A second chance at life is not something that everyone gets. Let yourselves be happy. Live your life, enjoy your love. But I know that you will do the most with it, and I will always wish you nothing but happiness; it is what you both deserve. Happiness," Peggy told her, voice gentle. Art could feel her eyes and nose start to sting with tears, the wholehearted sentiments hitting hard.

"Thank you, Peggy. I… cannot tell you how much that means to me… and to Steve. And we are both _so_ happy that you have lived your life to the fullest, just as you should have. You are the most remarkable woman I've had the pleasure of knowing."

"The same could be said for you! But you _must_ promise me, Artie, that you will do the same. That you will live your life to the fullest extent and settle for nothing less." Peggy had become serious, her lips somewhat pursed and her eyes deeply imploring. Art nodded her head, hair swaying around her face, and lovingly sandwiched Peggy's hand between both of hers.

"I promise––after all, us girls, we've gotta stick together and be extraordinary." The two shared a smile, recalling all of the times that they'd said that to one another. It was a promise to be safe, a reminder of solidarity, and a funny little quip to shoot about around the boys who knew Artie's secret. "I'll let Steve come in and talk to you for a bit. I'll be back soon, though, Peg."

Art leaned over the bed to gently embrace her friend, smiling when two arms softly returned the gesture. With another quiet goodbye, Art slipped from the room and allowed Steve to step inside. She sank into a chair just outside the room, a palm pressed flush to her cheek. Both of her eyes fell shut and she took in a measured inhale. After visiting Peggy, there was always a dread reminder of the inevitable––that one day, there would be no more visits. It never mattered how well the visit went or how heart wrenching it was, that was always the end result. Seeing Peggy was always a reminder that _that_ was where both Art and Steve _should_ be in their lives. They should be old and grey and wrinkled, fondly remembering times long since passed, being visited by their children and grandchildren. But they weren't––Peggy was. And it hurt to know that sometime in the future––closer than either of them wanted to acknowledge––she wouldn't be there to visit. It was always a harsh, existential realization for Art to realize that, some day, there would be no more visiting Kenny either.

Art's eyes shot open some time later upon hearing Peggy's shocked, broken voice proclaim that Steve was alive. A saddened furrow pinched her brows together as she heard Steve's warm voice comfort her. After he explained how he was there, and how Art was there too, Steve slipped from the room to allow the aged woman to rest. There was a glassiness in his eyes as he shut the door, which he tried to hide by ducking his head. Art had caught sight of it, however, and rose from her chair to tightly wrap her arms around Steve's middle. The embrace was tightly returned, Steve's fingers curling into fists around handfuls of of Artie's jacket. Art buried her face in his shoulder, brows scrunched together painfully. They were silent. A silent acknowledgement that this was the toughest part of their new reality. A reality that would sooner or later see that both Steve and Art would watch those that they had those that they loved––Peggy and Kenny––disappear from their lives forever; it was the cruelest side-effect of waking up from the ice.

OOOO

The end of their long, emotional day approached, but Steve insisted there was one last thing they had to do, and someone that Art had to meet. So they wove through D.C. on the motorcycle, enjoying the refreshing evening air, and swept into the parking lot of the local Veterans Association. A mild look of confusion had washed over her face, but Steve merely quirked a little smile, snagged her hand, and nodded for her to follow him inside. They asked for 'Sam Wilson' at the front desk, much to the shock and awe of the woman who sat behind it. She'd informed them that he was finishing up on a group therapy session, but that they could go wait for him. All of this had been said in a daze, her eyes slipping between the two super-soldiers like she was caught in a dream.

Steve and Art slowly approached the room that the secretary had indicated; it was large and filled with folding chairs, in a number of which sat an array of people quietly listening to one another. A man stood at a podium at the front of the room, who appeared to listen the most intently of everyone there. Art and Steve came to a stop just before the threshold of the doorway, drawing no attention to themselves, listening quietly as the meeting continued.

"The thing is, I think it's getting worse," said one woman. "A… cop pulled me over last week, he thought I was drunk. I… swerved to miss a plastic bag… I thought it was an IED."

Art's fingers tightened around Steve's reflexively. The admission was startlingly familiar and hit very close to home. If there was one thing war was good for, it was trauma; and that trauma didn't discriminate and it wasn't limited to wartime. It leaked into everyday life. It was difficult to deal with. The war in which Steve and Art had fought in was some seventy years removed from the one that the men and women in that room had been deployed to; but so much of it was startlingly familiar. Steve squeezed her fingers back.

"Some stuff you leave there; other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it gonna be in a big suitcase? Or a little man-purse? It's up to you," the man at the podium said, his voice soothing but firm. It made one think. His eyes darted towards the doorway, where they seemed to land on the two soldiers watching from the hall. He shifted the way he stood a little, an acknowledgement that he knew they were there, but returned to closing up the meeting. Art tugged on Steve's hand as the veterans started to disband, rising from their chairs.

They stood aside as the men and women filed out, chatting with one another, thanking the man from the podium as they left. Once most of them had left, the man stepped over to a table, where he started to reorganize a layout of pamphlets. He smirked a little at Steve, who approached with Art in tow. "Well would you look at who it is––the running man," the man lightly teased. His eyes then jumped to Art; he offered a hand with a warm, welcoming smile. "I'm Sam Wilson. Your boyfriend here lapped me around the National Mall all yesterday morning."

Art laughed gently and accepted the handshake, fingers curled tightly around his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Sam––I'm Artemesia Knoll, call me Artie. I'm usually his running partner, so I apologize if my absence meant he wore you out."

"Wore me out? I needed a new set of lungs trying to catch up with this guy."

"Believe me, _so do I_."

"Really? Lieutenant Liberty can't keep up with her counterpart?" teased Sam. Art faked a wounded expression, shooting Steve a look. She pointed up at his head, eyebrow cocked.

"Have you seen him? He's got a couple years of experience on me with the whole 'super-soldier' situation," Art deadpanned.

Sam chuckled and tapped together some of the pamphlets into a neat pile. Steve nodded his head in the direction of the room that the therapy session had been in.

"We caught the last few minutes; it was pretty intense," commented Steve.

"Yeah, brother. We've all got the same problems––guilt… regret…" Sam trailed off, eyes becoming distant, previously playful expression fading.

"You lose someone?" Steve asked.

"My wingman––Riley. Flying a night mission. Standard PJ rescue op, nothing we hadn't done a thousand times before… till an RPG blew Riley's dumb ass out of the sky." Sam paused, a heavy silence filling the gap. Both his arms rose to cross over his chest and his shoulders stiffened a little. "Nothing I could do about it. It's like I was up there just to watch."

"I'm sorry," Art murmured, brows furrowed. A thickness had gathered in her throat, because Sam was right––they had the same problem. She, too, had come to feel that she and Steve had only been on that train that fateful day to watch Bucky fall, to watch him disappear. It left the most soul-ripping guilt to pool in the pit of her stomach. Sam nodded a little to acknowledge the sentiment.

"After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason to be over there, you know?"

Steve nodded to the pamphlets he had been straightening, and the two metal folding chairs that looked so perfectly military. "But you're happy now? Back in the world?"

"Well, the number of people in the world giving me orders is down to about…" Sam looked around, as though he were looking for something to count, "zero? So, hell yeah." A very fitting toothy, bright smile split across his face. "Either of you thinking about getting out?"

"No," Steve said on an exhale. Then he paused, nodded his head to the side and smiled a very small, wry smile. "I don't know. To be honest, I don't know what I'd do with myself if I did."

"And you?" Sam directed the question to Art. She sighed through her nose and pressed her lips together, half a smile rising to her face. A shrug bounced her shoulders.  
"Kinda in the same boat as Steve. Doing what we do… it feels like home, almost, and… I don't really know what I'd do if I wasn't doing it, you know?"

Sam seemed to consider their answers and then pulled a contemplative face. "Ultimate Fighting? Talkin' for the both of you her." Both Art and Steve laughed. "Just a great idea off the top of my head. But, seriously, you can do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?"

There was a quick beat before Steve's hand found its way into Art's. She looked up at him and smiled sweetly, interlocking her fingers with his. Steve smiled a little crookedly from where he was leaned up against the wall, which made him look a little roguish.

"That is disgustingly sweet, y'all are making my teeth hurt," Sam laughed, raising a hand to cup his jaw. Steve chuckled and Art let him draw her into his side, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. "You both ever think of… settling down, so to speak? Like, buy a house, get a dog… fight over what color to paint the living room, have a drink on the porch on clear nights?"

With the gentlest of smiles still pulling at the corners of her mouth, Art dropped her eyes contemplatively to the floor. Truth be told, yes, she had thought of that––perhaps not the fighting of the wall color bit, but she _had_ thought of what it would be like to finally settle in. It was a pleasant idea, and one that she cared for very much; so much so that she hoped that it would, indeed, be their future one day. But it wasn't something she and Steve had ever openly discussed. It was a topic lost to the hecticness of the twenty-first century and the complications it had already dealt them. But, yes, Artie did think about it; and she had to wonder if Steve did too. A quick glance up at him revealed a similarly contemplative face. A face that was briefly hidden as he ducked his head to kiss the top of hers.

"Hey, like I said, you can do whatever you want to do; it's just that you two clearly make each other happy, so, I figured I might ask. If I've ever seen love, I'm seeing it right here" Sam nodded to them, brows arching pointedly.

"Speaking of," Steve started, smiling crookedly once more. Sam narrowed his eyes a little, confused as to where the conversation was turning. "We stopped by the front desk on the way in, asked for you by name."

Sam blinked at the super-soldier before he laughed brightly, arms breaking from their cross in order to clap. He waggled a finger at Steve with a bright gleam in his eyes. "You make good on your promises, don't you?"

"You gotta be happy too, right?"

Art slowly started to piece together the situation, a sly smile beginning to form. She cocked her head to the side, staring up at Steve with a quirked brow. He looked at her innocently, as though denying anything she might silently be questioning him on. With a fond shake of her head, Art turned attention back to Sam.

"She seemed very surprised, and maybe a little impressed, that we were asking to speak with you––a friend of ours," she added on, which only made him grin wider.

"You two are the best," he enthused, starting to back up down the hall. He was beaming brightly, happiness etched into every feature of his face. "Stop by again sometime soon?"

"Anytime, Sam," Steve agreed with a nod.

"I look forward to seeing you again," Art added on. With that, Sam took off at a jaunty jog towards the lobby, a smile still stretched across his face. After a beat, Steve and Art started to head towards the exit. His arm was still looped around her shoulders, so Art wove an arm around his waist; she gave him a squeeze. "You're a real softy, you know that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Steve feigned innocence. Art rolled her eyes and leaned her weight against him, causing them both to weave a little as they walked. He chuckled fondly.

"Don't lie to me, Steve Rogers; you've got the world's biggest heart. Don't you ever deny that."

"What if I do?"

"Then I'll rough you up, remind you you're not as hard boiled as you think you have to be."

"Think you could rough me up?"

" _Oh_ , I know I could, Rogers; and you know it too. That's why you're so stuck on me," Art said with playful arrogance, nose up in the air. Steve grinned that special grin of his, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He ducked his head and Art craned hers up, their lips meeting in a brief, but sweet, kiss. Steve smiled at her adoringly.

"I'm always gonna be stuck on you, Knoll, don't you ever forget it."

OOOO

By the time Art and Steve returned to their apartment, the sun had gone down. The sky was suitably dark and the air was starting to cool; the temperature was pleasant and soothing, a relaxing end to a very long day. It wasn't too late, but the couple had decided it would be nice to have an early evening. They had gotten dinner while out, so the tentative plan was that Art was going to read for a while, Steve was going to keep working on a drawing he'd started a while back, and then they would call it a night. It sounded blissfully relaxed. But it seemed that not everyone would be having such a laid back night. Upon rounding their landing, they spotted their neighbor Kate with a laundry basket braced against one hip and a phone sandwiched between her shoulder and ear. She was wearing a set of pink pajamas, which likely meant she'd just gotten back from work. Kate bid them a happy 'hi' when she spotted them.

"I've gotta go though," she said to the person on the phone. She struggled to shut her door, having no hands to shut it with; so Art hung back a little and tugged it shut. Kate mouthed 'thank you,' to the soldier before she smiled at whatever was said on the other end of the line. "Bye." She gestured with the cellphone before dropping it into the laundry basket. "My aunt, she's kinda an insomniac. Yeah…"

"Hey, you know if you want––if you want––you can always use our machine," Steve offered, nodding to Kate's laundry basket. Art nodded and gestured to their apartment door, a smile playing across her lips.

"It's a lot closer and probably a lot cheaper than the one in the basement," Art prompted.

"Oh yeah? What's it cost?" Kate asked with a little laugh.

Art shrugged and pushed her hands into her jacket pockets. "Consider it a 'thank you' for being a lovely neighbor; putting up with us tromping down the hall at all times of the night, all the people that come knocking on our door… giving us energy drinks when you come back from the grocery store."

"It really wouldn't be a bother," Steve added on with a friendly smile.

Kate smiled and nodded to acknowledge the offer. "Thank you for the offer, but, I already have a load in downstairs, and you really don't want my scrubs in your machine. I just finished a rotation in the infectious disease ward, so…"

Steve laughed a little and held up his hands in surrender, keys jangling at the movement. "Ah, well, we'll keep our distance," he joked.

"Hopefully not too far; wouldn't want to lose the best neighbors I've had in years." Kate smiled before she started to turn towards the stairs, the neighbors parting ways for the evening. "Oh! I think you guys left your stereo on," she pointed out, pausing at the banister.

Art blinked down the hall at her. The stereo. They didn't have a stereo, they only had a record player, and they sure as hell hadn't been playing music earlier. She shared a look at Steve, a quiet panic and warning alight in her eyes. Steve managed a smile down at Kate, lifting his hand in acknowledgement.

"Right. Thank you. Yeah."

Simultaneously, as Kate disappeared down the stairs, Steve and Art turned to face the door to their apartment, all signs of a laid back evening gone. Sure enough, through the door, they could hear the muffled sound of music. It was easily recognizable as "It's Been a Long, Long Time," a favorite song of theirs; so it _was_ their music, but they hadn't put the record player on for a good week or two. Missions had gotten too in the way of having any down time. Art's eyes flicked up to meet Steve's, and he nodded to the window just beside their front door. She nodded in agreement while he pocketed his keys. If someone was in their apartment, they would clearly be expecting them to come in through the front door; so why not throw them off as much as they possibly could?

Art shouldered the window open, wincing as it squeaked and rattled. She slipped through the window and carefully braced the toes of her shoes on the ledge just beneath it. It was a decorative stone ledge, beautifully carved for façade purposes, but it aided their purpose even more beautifully. With painstaking slowness, Art started to shift along the ledge, body pressed flat to the wall. Steve followed close behind. Neither spoke a word. They were on high alert and were treating the situation as though it were a mission. Because it was just as dire––if someone was really, _truly_ in their apartment, waiting to do god knows what for god knows who, then their safest space had been breached. Their _home_ had been breached––and that simply wouldn't stand. When Art sidled up to their kitchen window, she prayed that they hadn't locked it, and let out a steadying breath. She felt Steve's hand grab hers with a vice-like grip, which gave her the support she needed to lean over, tuck her fingertips into the seam of the windowpane and pull. The window glided open smoothly, soundlessly. A breath of relief swept through Art's lips before she ducked through the now open window.

The music was now louder and playing the final instrumental strains of the song. There was a quiet hiss of static, followed by the song resetting itself. Steve slipped into the apartment behind her, feet soundlessly touching the floor. The two were standing bent at the knees, leaving them in a tactical crouch as they took in the darkness of their apartment. Art jerked her head towards the hallway and darted her eyes in the direction of the living room. Steve nodded and took point, sweeping into the hallway. As she followed, Art snagged her staff, which had been sitting deactivated on the bottom shelf of their quasi-cabinet-bookshelf wall. Steve took up his shield, which had been propped up against the wall, and the two prepared to do what they had to. With a simple press of the thumb, the staff was activated into its baton setting, which Art wielded at her side. She and Steve kept their backs flush to the wall, doing everything systematically. Slowly, Steve leaned out around the corner to peer into the living room.

After a second, his stance went slack, losing all defensive aspects. Steve leaned up against the wall, knee popped, and his chin dropped to his chest. Taking this as there not being any threat, Art pushed away from the wall and stepped around Steve; there, sitting in the darkness of their living room, was Nick Fury. He was reclined in their arm chair, his head lolled back and his legs outstretched. The fine orchestrations of Henry James' band swelled while Art's tense shoulders finally sagged. A hand rose to massage her forehead, which had been creased in concentration. The frantic beating of her heart started to slow upon the realization that it was only the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. in their living room, not some assassin hell bent on having their heads.

"I don't remember either of us giving you a key," Steve deadpanned.

"Well…" The word was strangled with the effort he took to sit up properly. This gave Art some pause, her eyes trying to discern his state through the murky streetlamp light that filtered through the closed shades. "You really think I'd need one?"

"It's usually a courtesy kind of thing; I don't think that's changed much with the times," Art pointed out, tapping the baton against her thigh. She couldn't help the vague edge that had entered her voice. He may have been the best option for who could be waiting for them, but _god_ did he scare the shit out of her. Fury sat forward on his knees, breathing deeply.

"My wife kicked me out."

"Didn't know you were married," commented Steve, a wary edge to his tone. Art cocked her head to the side and her lips pursed. Something about the whole set-up didn't seem right––the lack of light, the secretiveness, the wife that he'd never mentioned…

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," he drawled, voice low and tired.

Art heard Steve sigh. He slipped around the corner, into the living room, and reached for the light switch. "I know Nick. That's the problem." There was a quiet _click_ and the lights came on. Art's face immediately went slack and her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach.

There was a nasty looking cut along Fury's cheek bone, dried blood crusting around the edges of it. Parts of his face seemed to be swelling and blood was spattered here and there with little to no discernable source. A quiet gasp squeaked into her throat, her mouth dropping open like it had just been filled with cement. The words 'what happened' died on her lips as Fury shot both her and Steve a pleading look. He lifted a hand, which clutched a phone, in a 'wait' motion; he reached up and tugged on the cord to the lamp beside his chair. The room was plunged back into the murky half-light they'd been in before. Art shot Steve a look of concern as Fury tapped at the screen of the phone. He turned it towards them––on it was a message:

 _EARS EVERYWHERE._

Immediately, Art's shoulders squared again. She clutched the baton tighter. Her heart started to beat faster again. Steve had started to scan the room with his eyes, head slowly turning as he did so. Just as slow, Art started to move a little further into the living room, surveying their surroundings to see if anything had changed. Steve's sketch pad still sat open on the coffee table. The pile of books hadn't been disturbed. Everything was just as it should be, which was even more frightening; there was no sign of the 'ears' that Fury mentioned, but that didn't mean they weren't there. When Art's eyes darted back to Steve's equally as cautious ones, he quirked a brow, a silent question. She shook her head–– _no_ , she didn't see anything.

"I'm sorry to have to do this, but I had no place else to crash," Fury continued, keeping up the façade. The whimsical music continued to sell through the room as another message was typed out. This one made Art's blood run cold.

 _SHIELD COMPROMISED._

"Who else knows about your wife?" Steve asked, tone carefully regulated. Fury struggled to his feet, thumb tapping away.

"Just… my friends."

 _US THREE._

Fury limped a little closer to the two soldiers, an arm wrapped around his ribcage. Steve's face had gone tense, jaw tight, brows furrowed, lips pursed.

"Is that what we are?"

"That's up to you two."

There was a muffled booming sound, followed by a spray of plaster and chipped paint; Fury cried out in pain and his body pitched forward as he was struck. Art instinctively jumped back, her shoulder blades hitting the wall with a thump. Two more blasts filled the room with a fine cloud of plaster and paint, and Fury hit the floor, struck twice more. Simultaneously, Steve and Art grabbed one of his arms each and started to drag him from the room. He groaned and shuddered as he was moved, a trail of blood smearing across the hardwood floors. Once Fury was safely brought into the kitchen, Steve immediately started to stand and turn away to survey the suddenly dire situation. But there was a soft thwack as Fury grabbed Steve's forearm. His other hand found Art's elbow; his fingers trembled just as badly as his breathing wheezed.

The hand that had clutched Steve's forearm opened to reveal a thumb drive. "Don't… trust… _anyone_."

 _Thud. Thud. Bang!_

The front door was kicked open, hitting the wall with a resounding thud. The two soldiers leapt into fight mode, Steve defensively bared his shield and Art spun the baton around, finger hovering over the button that would extend it into a staff.

"Captain Rogers? Lieutenant Knoll?" Art's brows crumpled together upon recognizing the voice––that was _Kate_. After she poked her head around the corner, she saw that her ringing hers had not deceived her. Kate was walking down the front hall, pink pajamas still donned, with a gun leveled expertly down the length of the hall. "Captain, Lieutenant, I'm Agent 13 of S.H.I.E.L.D. Special Service.

" _Kate?_ " Steve stressed in confusion.

" _You're_ S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Art tagged on, disbelief coloring her voice. Kate nodded, blonde curls swaying.

"I'm assigned to protect you."

"On whose order?"

Kate entered the room after casing the living room, her expression going slack upon seeing the man bleeding out on the floor. "His." She was kneeling on the floor beside Fury, checking his pulse in the blink of an eye. It was all Art could do to gape at her in shock, trying to process everything that had happened in the last two minutes. A faint sting of betrayal pricked at her, upon realizing that their nice neighbor had been spying on them for months. Kate then produced a radio from the waistband of her pants and lifted it to her mouth. "Foxtrot is down, he's unresponsive. We need EMTs."

 _Do we have a twenty on the shooter?_ crackled a voice over the radio. Steve and Art crowded around the kitchen window, eyes landing on a figure in black that spun away from the edge; something gleamed dully in the moonlight as he fled.

Tight jawed, Steve glared through the window.

"Tell them I'm in pursuit."

Art barely had time to turn away and shield her head as Steve backed up and leapt through their window, smashing the glass with a loud shatter. She rushed to the now decimated windowpane and peered through just in time to see him crash through the window of the building across the street.

" _Shit_ ," she hissed.

Art tore from the apartment and thundered down the stairs two at a time. By the time she was out the front door, she was breathing hard and running as fast as her legs could push her. There was every chance the shooter was already on the ground, and she was not about to let that option go unchecked. Even through the wind whipping past her ears, Art could just barely hear the sound of crashes from the building Steve had leapt into. Looking up as she ran, Art watched as the figure from the roof leapt onto another building, making for the edge of the roof.

"Oh, no you don't, you sonofabitch…" Art swore under her breath, pushing herself to run faster. By the time that she rounded the street corner of the third building, the figure had dropped from the roof. She watched as they plummeted towards the sidewalk below; there was no way that anyone could make that fall and not break something. But at the last moment, they pitched forward into a tight shoulder roll that landed them in a crouch. " _Hey._ "

The shooter's head rose sharply, strands of bone-straight brown hair falling into their eyes. Those eyes, even halfway down the sidewalk, were piercing and surrounded by smudged black grease paint. A mask covered half of their face, the edge following the lines of their cheekbones, cutting over the bridge of their nose; it disguised their mouth, jaw, and neck, which left only those cold eyes to glare and emote. Art was going to do her damndest to keep him busy till backup arrived. She twirled her baton, flicked a button, and let the lower half extend; it was a challenge, a clearly telegraphed challenge. Her opponent said nothing. They did nothing but glare, the cool breeze fluttering hair over their eyes. Then, with a predatory slowness, he rose to his full height. What immediately struck her was that this person, this man, was imposing. The broadness of his shoulders and chest were accentuated by the tactical leather it was clad in. In fact, everything about him was steeped in black tactical gear––the heavy duty harness, the bulky belt, the tough cargo pants, the heavy duty boots. This was a man that was not going to half-ass anything; this man was _dangerous._

Art rushed forward and swung the staff, aiming to strike at his head. He did not move as she rushed him, standing as steadfast as brick wall. So fast that Art barely had time to blink, the staff was ripped from her hands and she was sent stumbling past the shooter. But then her own staff was barred acrossed and pulled against her throat; a choked gasp was forced from her mouth and her back was shoved back against the shooter's chest. Art threw her head back against his shoulder and wormed her hands between her throat and the grip of the metal staff. With all of her might, Art pushed, the muscles in her arms shaking. The effort to get it to budge even an inch. There was a sharp glint of silver in her periphery, and her eye was immediately drawn to it. She felt her blood run cold. A metal arm. This man had a _metal arm_. The realization had sapped the energy away from her arms, which snapped the staff back against her throat painfully. Another choked sound spilled past her lips as panic started to run rampant.

It was like this man had walked out one of her darkest, fuzziest memories––a living ghost that she had forgotten about. One that had been a hallucination to her. One that had been there lurking and watching in what had been her darkest moment. Something shifted, then, as the man jostled the staff tighter against her throat. Things suddenly went into hyper-focus. She could hear the sound of the man's breath hissing through his mask. Feel the leather and straps press into her back. Smell the sweat that clung to his skin. Her expression went dead pan and she threw her head back against his shoulder again. Art pushed against the staff once more, and once it was a safe distance away from her neck, she pressed the blue button with her thumb. There was a hum swiftly followed by a zapping sound as the staff electrified. The metal arm seized and then went completely slack, electricity arcing and sparking across it; the man's flesh hand was ripped away, taking the staff with it, a sharp hiss of pain cutting through his mask. The staff was tossed aside, discarded uncaringly, where it clattered noisily.

Art spun away and immediately fell into a defensive boxing stance. Her form was perfect and she shifted into it with deadly, natural ease. She watched, with an unwavering intensity, as the man threw his metal arm backwards, rotating it completely. The metal plates whirred and clicked and his fingers flexed as the arm rebooted. Then his chin ducked, his eyes narrowed, and he came at her quickly, angrily. He swung a fist at her, which she blocked without so much as a flinch. When the metal arm came for her, Art ducked underneath it and hooked her foot around his ankle as she did so. With a swift yank, the super-strength of which would have felled a normal man, sent the deadly assassin to a knee. The moment he was down, Art clambered onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, half of which was protected by hard plastic. Her altitude shifted as the man rose to his feet; Art clung to him like her life depended on it, squeezing her arms around his neck as much as she could. Her expression remained completely deadpan, completely emotionless until the man kicked up into the air and dropped backwards, slamming her directly into the pavement.

Whatever trance she had slipped into was broken by the pain that flooded her body upon being sandwiched between the assassin and the pavement. The back of her skull hit the ground with a painful crack, her vision going wonky as a result. The air was forced from her lungs. A pained groan rumbled in her chest and her eyes scrunched shut sharply. Art's arms were jostled from around the man's neck; they flopped to the pavement, where they lay limply in her daze. The weight on her chest was quick to disappear, leaving her sprawled out on the sidewalk, body aching and head swimming. Through a fluttering gaze, Art watched the man loom over her for a moment. Then, in an actual blink of an eye, he was gone. _She_ was the only evidence that he had ever been on that street corner, her beaten form crumpled on the sidewalk.

"Artie!"

Steve cut into her line of sight, dropping into a crouch beside her. One of his hands snuck between the back of her head and the pavement, cradling it gingerly. His other hand took hold of one of hers, pulling as he helped her sit up. Art stared down the empty street, only one thought coming to the forefront of her mind.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, voice breathy and worried.

"I recognized him…" she muttered. There was a pause, a disbelieving pause, which was filled with the sound of screeching car tires and sirens. The streets were suddenly flooded with S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles.

"What?"

"Steve, I recognized him, but… but I _shouldn't_ …" She looked to him with furrowed brows and confused eyes. Her lips twitched to form words that she couldn't vocalize. "He had a metal arm, and I _remember_ seeing a man with a metal arm at Schmidt's base."

Steve's gaze became wary and a frown overtook his features. His thumb brushed over the nape of her neck delicately, ghosting over her skin like he was probing for injuries. "Artie, I think you might have hit your head."

" _No_ , Steve." Her voice was dangerously firm and her expression was just as tense. Steve blinked at her in surprise, eyes searching hers intently. Art's nose started to sting and her eyes started to blur over with tears. "I recognized him. I-I thought it had been a hallucination, and I _don't understand_ , but I've seen him before. Steve… I know it's crazy, but… _please_ … believe me."

Steve's lips formed a tight line that matched the perfect furrow of his brows. He murmured a quiet 'c'mon' and helped her stand. His arms folded around her protectively, holding her confused and trembling body against his. Art crumpled her fingers in the back of his jacket. They both watched as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents flooded the street, setting up a perimeter and rushing towards their apartment building. Art let her eyes fall shut, silently allowing herself to wonder when they would finally have a quiet, uncomplicated evening.

OOOO

Steve, and Art stood in an observation room adjacent to where Fury was undergoing intensive surgery. Maria Hill stood off to the side on the phone, talking in hushed tones with a hand braced over her forehead. Steve stood with his hands braced at the bottom of the window, face stern as he watched the doctor's worked. Art had one hand placed atop his, the other fisted in front of her mouth. Neither of them spoke. The air was too tense, the situation too dire. Art wished that she could understand what the monitors meant. She wished that she had been a _real_ nurse at some point prior to her military career, because that could have at least given her a bearing on how bad the situation was. But, no, she had mostly done administration work and food delivery. That did her no good now, as she watched the man who had welcomed her into the twenty-first century fought for his life.

At some point, the door was flung open and Natasha very nearly stumbled into the room, tripping to a stop when she saw what was happening in the operating room.

"Is he gonna make it?" she asked, her voice the most broken Art had ever heard it.

"We don't know," Steve replied, voice low.

"Tell me about the shooter," Natasha quietly ordered, eyes never leaving Fury.

"He's fast. Strong. Had a metal arm. Artie said that she recognized him."

Art sighed against her hand and noticed that Natasha had tensed up significantly. "Recognized in a loose sense. I… didn't recognize his face, I just… the day I escaped Schmidt's lab, I thought I saw a man with a metal arm watching me. I dismissed it as blood loss because… who the hell has a metal arm? But… I don't know," she murmured. There were two possible answers to her potential recognition––one was that it was a coincidence and it was some sort of military technology someone had been using for years. Different man, same technology. The other possible answer is that, somehow, this man had survived seventy years like she and Steve had. Both made her temples throb with a headache.

"Ballistics?" Natasha asked shakily.

"Three slugs. No rifling, completely untraceable," Maria reported, stepping up beside Nat.

Art could see Natasha's expression in her reflection; she was terrified. "Soviet made."

Maria looked over at her, a little surprised. "Yeah."

In the operating room, activity started to kick up. Doctors started to rush around as monitors went haywire. Steve's hands dropped from the window and Art tangled her fingers with his tightly. A doctor went for the defibrillator, while another prepped an area on Fury's chest. Art felt her heart start to beat faster, more frantically, as fear steadily started to course through her system. Beside her, Natasha repeatedly started to mutter 'don't do this to me, Nick.' They shocked him once.

Twice.

The doctors went to check his pulse. Then they rechecked. Art watched as, simultaneously, each of the surgeons deflated. The readings on the monitors were all flat. There was no grand announcement. There was no sad shake of the head. All there was was a numbing realization that Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. was dead.

With a single blink, a stream of tears rolled down Art's cheek. She didn't think that Steve had ever squeezed her hand so hard; a couple of her knuckles popped from the pressure, and she was sure if he squeezed any harder he could have broken bone. But she squeezed back just as tight. Her chest jolted with a choked back sob, which ended up sounding more like a hiccup. After a moment, as she watched the doctors snap off their bloody gloves and start to write down final readings, Art shook her hand and pulled her hand from Steve's.

"Excuse me…" she squeaked out. She exited the room, forcing herself to inhale and exhale evenly.

They were all allowed a moment alone with his body to say goodbye. Art stood as close to the door as she could, back flush to the wall. It would be too real if she got too close. She could barely look at his dreadfully still form, covered clinically in a white sheet that was turned down at his shoulder. Steve stood beside her, chin ducked and hands shoved in his pockets. Natasha was stood over the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., her arms crossed over her chest. The room was dead silent for a long couple of minutes until Maria stepped in, fighting to keep her expression neutral.

"They need to take him," she informed, voice barely above a whisper. Steve stepped forward after a moment, quietly uttering the redhead's name. Art watched as Natasha placed a caring hand on Fury's forehead, allowing it to linger before she swept from the room, looking at no one. After a moment, Art scrunched her eyes shut, mashed her lips together, and steeled herself. She pushed away from the wall and slowly approached the table that Fury was laid across. She stood at his side and stared down at him. Tears prickled at her eyes.

Nick Fury hadn't been an easy man to get along with, but he was a good man. He looked after his own and protected them any way that he could, no matter what he had to do. He'd kept secrets, but he did it because he thought that it was for the best. Art faced the wall and dropped her forehead against it, and her expression crumpled suddenly. Fury had been the first person she saw when she'd woken up in this brand new, strange world; he had been blunt with her, and in hindsight, that was exactly what she had needed. Somehow, Nicholas J. Fury had always known what people needed. He was the strangest kind of people person, and the world was already less bright without him in it.

Art reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder, her fingers warm against his already chilled skin. "Thank you," she whispered. She nodded to reaffirm her words and cleared her throat. "Thank you, Nick." With that she withdrew her hand and stepped away from the table, exiting the room with a sad nod to Maria.

Just as Art entered the hall, Natasha had spun on her heel to face boh Steve and Artie.

"What was Fury doing in your apartment?" she asked, voice shockingly cool and collected. Her cheeks and nose were pink, and her eyes tired, but there was a drive behind them that was just as strong as ever.

Art watched as Steve struggled for an answer before he pulled an innocent face and shrugged.

"I don't know," he lied.

"Cap, Lieu." Art turned to see Rumlow approaching them, all business. "They want you back at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Yeah, give us a second," Steve replied. Just as they started to turn back to Natasha, he spoke again.

"They want you now."

Art fixed Rumlow with a dangerous look. "Thank you, Agent Rumlow, we copy," she bit out flatly. Rumlow gave a curt nod before he turned on his heel and marched back to the assembled members of the STRIKE team.

Natasha smirked at the blonde soldier, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You're a terrible liar. You should've let Artemesia answer for you."

Art and Steve watched Natasha disappear down the hall, leaving them standing side-by-side in silence. It was the second night in a row that Art had spent in a hospital, though the outcome of this stay was significantly worse than just sitting at Harlowe's bedside. She ran both her hands over her face and groaned into her palms. It was going to be another long day, she could already feel it; and the sun wasn't even up yet. With a sigh, Art let her hands drop away from her face and smackdown against her thighs.

"You ready to go?" she asked Steve tiredly. When he didn't respond immediately, she saw Steve staring into the open vending machine to their right. He looked contemplative, and he was fiddling with something in his pocket.

"Yeah…" he murmured distantly. His head snapped around to look at her, looking a little more present than he had a moment ago. "I'll catch up to you in a second."

Art offered a confused look. Steve pulled his hand out of his pocket and slipped his hand into hers; he squeezed and in his palm she could feel the thumb drive Fury had given him. He darted his eyes towards the vending machine, which was being restocked. She nodded then and stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek, aware that there were eyes all around them. S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised and they had to be careful. She then pulled her hand from his––carefully this time––and made her way towards Rumlow. Halfway down the hall, Steve was at her side, matching her stride with ease.

"Let's go," Steve said to Rumlow. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent nodded, fixing his ear piece.

"Yeah." Rumlow fell into step on Art's other side, the three marching towards the exit. "STRIKE, move it out!"

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**And so it begins––it**_ _ **really**_ _**kicks off next chapter, and I cannot wait to get that written and up for y'all to read. I was really excited to finally get the Winter Soldier into play, and I'm so pumped to keep on writing.**_

 _ **Review Replies!**_

 **Nina fo life:** _OHHHH SNAPPP indeed! Everything's going down, now! I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!_

 **emmagnetised:** _I'm excited that you're excited to see where this goes! I have a blast writing Steve and Artie's ever evolving relationship, it's fun to discover and write all its facets. And I'm glad you enjoyed the Smithsonian scene! I love museums, and I'm a tiny bit of a history buff, so I got carried away writing it. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **BigBangVIP:** _I'm glad you're excited to see what happens next; I hope that this chapter with tide you over till I can get the next one up and running! Thanks again!_

 **Heh309:** _If last chapter fucked you up, then some of the coming chapters are gonna do just the same; because they're fucking ME up, and I'm the one brainstorming and writing them. And Kenny… dear, sweet Kenny. He is getting up there in age… and it's heartbreaking to know that, at some point, he's not gonna be part of the story anymore. When I think about it, I actually get teary. Kenny is just such a lively character, and I always have fun incorporating him and figuring out what his life has been like. I have a plan for him meeting Artie before Civil War, and it will be filled with fanboy joy. And Artie did, indeed, see our boy the Winter Soldier all the way back when… we'll see how that comes back into play when his identity is revealed. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Carpe Diem Vampire:** _I am very flattered that you've given this particular story a read, despite usually reading stories that are already finished. I'm very happy that you've enjoyed reading Steve and Artie's adventures, and that you think they've been kept in good, constant character (my biggest fear is that, suddenly, I'll write them out of character). I thinks it's important that they're kept rooted in their 40s roots because it's just… it's who they are, and no matter how acclimated they are to the modern era, that will always be their base, their fall-back. They will eventually 'get it on,' but, don't worry, it's not creeping up anytime soon. And, who knows, maybe there will be a proposal at some point ;) I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thank you again for taking the time to read these stories!_

 _ **And thank you to those who added this story to follows/favorites; it means a lot to me!**_

 _ **Alright, so next time, Cap and Lieu will go on the run! I can't wait. It's gonna hurt emotionally, but I cannot wait for everything that is about to happen; and I cannot wait for everyone to see what I've got planned. Thank you, again, for reading! You all rock!**_

 _ **~Mary**_


	7. Betrayal

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

7\. Betrayal

Running on minimal sleep, a whole lot of coffee, and a healthy dose of paranoia, Art and Steve found themselves on their way to meet Alexander Pierce. It was too early to be all done up in their uniforms, but they were wearing them anyways. It was a courtesy the Secretary of the World Security Council deserved, no matter how skeeved out Art was by him. Both super-soldiers had done their best not to speak to anyone they didn't have to; Fury's warning hung heavy in the air around them, silently acknowledged. Art wondered who they could and could not trust as her eyes would dance from person to person. The world suddenly seemed so much more dangerous, and it was tensing the muscles in her shoulders uncomfortably. The two walked in sync as they exited the elevator, and turned the corner. Standing in the door to Fury's office was Pierce––and Agent Thirteen, formerly known to them as Kate. As they passed each other by, she inclined her head to them.

"Captain, Lieutenant," she greeted diplomatically. Steve, face stoic, spared her no glance as they nearly brushed shoulders.

" _Neighbor_ ," he stressed, an edge to his voice.

Art also did not meet Agent Thirteen's eyes and curtly replied to her greeting with, "Good morning."

Pierce met the two soldiers at the door, offering his hand to the half of the pair he had yet to meet.

"Ah, Captain. I'm Alexander Pierce," he greeted. Steve accepted the handshake and inclined his head gratefully. There was a careful stoicism in his expression.

"Sir, it's an honor," Steve replied.

"The honor's mine, Captain. My father served in the One-hundred-and-First." Pierce then offered his hand to Art, palm open and welcoming, smiling a little as he did so. "A pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant."

Art couldn't even pretend to have the energy to smile. So she just nodded and shook his hand after a beat of hesitation. His fingers curled around hers with a sharp tightness that could almost be deciphered as possessiveness. "I wish it were under better circumstances." Pierce sighed, patting the back of her hand with heavy empathy. He shook her hand a little and his eyes narrowed in some semblance of sadness upon the acknowledgement of the situation that brought them together that morning.

"As do I, Lieutenant, as do I…" Pierce nodded them inside and dropped Art's hand, which she cradled to her stomach briefly, rubbing the back of it. "Now, I'd like to speak with both of you, but I'd like to do it separately. I'm sure you understand." Without waiting for either of them to state whether they did or did not understand, Pierce stepped aside and swung an arm to gesture into the office. "Captain, I'd like to speak with you first."

After a beat, Steve nodded his head and stepped into the office. "Of course, sir."

Art locked eyes with Pierce as he started to shut the office door; he smiled at her, a look that reached his eyes, but not in the kindest of ways. There was an appraising sort of gleam in them, just like the last time that they'd met. His smile was not kind––it was pretense. But she did not return the pretense, for she did not have the energy to do so. But, still, he smiled, and his eyes gleamed. It was like he trying to gauge how she was handling the situation, the separation. Art didn't let on that it made her uncomfortable. Or that the last thing she wanted was to be alone with Pierce again, because the last time she was alone with him, she'd lost a solid twenty seconds of memory. Instead she unflinchingly held his gaze till the office door shut. Once the door had finally shut, Art turned away from it and let her head drop exhaustedly.

The past twelve hours had been immensely draining. It was one thing to deal with Fury getting shot, another to fight that metal armed man, _another_ to watch Fury die, and a whole other shit storm to heed his final words. It felt like the world that she could trust was much smaller. Like it had shrunk in on her and confined her like a cage. It had elevated her paranoia to a point she didn't think it had ever reached. It had her acting like her life was now a mission, instead of it just being her life. It made her head spin, like it had been shoved violently against a wall. There hadn't been such a devastatingly eventful twelve hours for Artie since the Battle of New York, and that hadn't been much fun at all. It was all she could do to resolve to heed Fury's advice to herself and Steve––trust no one. Not that she trusted Pierce as far as he could throw her––which she suspected wasn't very far––but now she had a reasonable excuse to express her distaste for him rather than just 'he skeeves me out.'

She didn't know how long she had been lost in thought, but she was pulled out of it when the office door opened. Steve stepped out, face tautly composed. Their eyes just barely had the chance to meet before Pierce appeared in the doorway. He smiled again, but this time it was small and less predatory. He gestured for her to enter the room with a wave of his hand.

"Lieutenant, if you would."

Art squared her shoulders and steeled herself with a steady exhale.

"I'll be right here," Steve assured in a low tone. She nodded silently and started to walk towards the office. In passing Steve, he briefly hooked his pointer finger around her pinky. It was a small, barely perceptible movement, but it was greatly comforting. Their hands parted as Art slipped through the office door, trying to slip past Pierce without bumping shoulders with him.

It hit her, upon entering the office, that she had subconsciously expected to see Fury seated at the desk. Expected him to look up with an arched brow and greet her with a wry comment of some sort. But the desk was empty, the air was devoid of well-meaning sarcastic comments. Instead she was greeted with the sharp click of the door closing. The padding of footsteps that crept up on her with uncomfortable swiftness.

"Please, make yourself comfortable. Take a seat if you like. Can I get you anything?" Pierce offered, passing her by. He arched his brows inquiringly as he headed towards the grouping of leather couches. "Water? Coffee, maybe? I can't imagine you've gotten much sleep."

Art forced the biggest smile she could manage––which wasn't very large at all––and shook her head. "Had some coffee that the hospital. But thank you, Secretary, your hospitality is always welcomed." She inclined her head to convey her thanks, hands tightly clasped behind her back. The man she addressed nodded and let out a tired sigh, sitting himself down on one of the couches. He gestured to the one across from him in invitation.

"How are you holding up? Heard you got into a… bit of a tangle with Nick's attacker."

Following his question, Art blinked and was greeted with a memory of the shooter's eyes, piercing and blue. She shook her head a little and moved to sit on the couch opposite Pierce's. As she seated herself, Art found herself recalling the 'tangle' and felt a sharp twist in her stomach. And despite her dislike of the man sat across from her, Art found herself answering truthfully. For if Pierce had any reason to be suspicious of her––for whatever reason––sticking to the truth when she could was the best tactic.

"I'm… holding up. I want to find the sonofabitch who shot him, find out who wanted him dead. Fury, he… was the first person I saw when I woke up from, y'know… he didn't deserve to go out like that," Art murmured. Her eyes had fallen on a photograph abandoned on the coffee table; it was a picture of Fury and Pierce, younger men who had seen and experienced much less. Across from her, Pierce hummed.

"I share your sentiments––Nick was a very good friend… See, that photo was taken five years after Nick and I met when I was at State Department in Bogota," Pierce informed. "E.L.N. rebels took the embassy, and security got _me_ out, but the rebels took hostages. Nick was Deputy Chief of the S.H.I.E.L.D. station there, and he comes to me with a plan. He wants to storm the building through the sewers. I said 'No, we'll negotiate.' Turned out, the E.L.N. didn't negotiate, so they put out a kill order. They stormed the basement, and what do they find? They find it empty." A vague, faint smile appeared at the corners of Pierce's mouth. "Nick had defied my direct order and carried out an unauthorized military operation on foreign soil, and saved the lives of a dozen political officers, including my daughter."

Art braced her forearms on her knees, eyes dropping back to the picture of Fury. He had no eye-patch, which was interesting to her, as she'd never seen him without it on. It must have been before he'd lost the eye. "You're the one that promoted him, then?" she deduced.

"Never regretted it; probably one of the best decisions I've made in my career." There was a heavy silence that followed those words, a silent remembrance given to the man who had just passed. "Lieutenant… why was Nick in your apartment last night?"

Slowly, Art lifted her gaze to meet Pierce's. His eyes were expectant and probing, like he could extract a detailed answer from just the way her facial muscles might shift. She let out a sigh and arched her brows, a shake of her head accompanying the rise. Art sniffed, nose still a little stuffed from crying earlier, and pursed her lips.

"No," she lied, voice a hoarse whisper. Pierce nodded slowly and sat back against the sofa cushions, arms folding over his chest.

"Were you aware that your apartment was bugged?"

"Nick told us," Art confirmed. Pierce quirked his head to the side a brow slowly arching in prompting inquiry.

"Did he tell you he was the one who bugged it?"

A tense silence filled the room. Art's hands tensed into fists, the plating in her gloves locking as it usually did. It killed her that, somewhere in the back of her head, a voice whispered that maybe Pierce was right. Maybe Fury _had_ bugged the apartment––he'd kept secrets from them before, who's to say that wasn't one of them? But the more rational part of her head reminded her of how worried Fury had looked when he informed them that they were being listened in on.

"No," Art finally said. "No, he did not."

Pierce slowly nodded, eyes not leaving her once. He then swept a hand towards the wall of glass screens to his right, directing her attention to it. It was then that Art realized that there was a video feed on it––one that displayed none other than Batroc the Leaper being restrained and interrogated. Art straightened a little and leaned forward in her seat.

"You caught him?"

"Yeah, they picked him up last night in a not-so-safe house in Algiers. It's a live feed, they've been interrogating him for hours."

It was then that Art realized the insinuation of his words. A crease formed between her brows while she watched Batroc stubbornly refuse to answer, expression pissed. "If… you're suggesting that Batroc is a suspect in the shooting, I can tell you he's not where you need to be looking. For one, assassination isn't in this guy's skill set. For another, the fella that shot Fury looked nothing like him––longer hair, more broadly built… blue eyes…" Again, those haunting eyes flashed at the forefront of her mind, and this time, her face screwed up as a strange sense of familiarity struck her. She hadn't seen his eyes at Schmidt's base… but they were somehow familiar.

"He's not a suspect, Lieutenant. I'm afraid that it's much more complicated than that." Pierce leaned forward and placed his fingers on a file that had been left abandoned on the coffee table. He scooted it forward, silently commanding her to pick it up. She scooped it up and flicked it open, eyes starting to scan over the words and pictures inside. "Batroc was hired anonymously to attack the _Lemurian Star_. He was contacted by email and paid by wire transfer, and then the money was run through seventeen fictitious accounts, the last one going to a holding company that was registered to a Jacob Veech. Now, Veech died six years ago. His last address was fourteen-thirteen Elmhurst Drive. When I first met Nick, his mother lived at fourteen-thirty-seven."

Art stifled an incredulous laugh, but allowed her hand to fly up in a halting motion. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, pick the right words. Pierce's attention was, once again, turned wholly on her, and a shiver of discomfort rolled down her spine. After steeling herself with a quiet exhale, she spoke.

"Are you… suggesting that Fury orchestrated the entire attack on the _Lemurian Star_? That he hired the pirates, instructed them to take hostages… the whole shebang? Why would he have any reason to do any of that?" she asked, mind honestly boggled at the suggestion. Pierce shrugged and made a little bit of a face.

"The prevailing theory was that the hijacking was a cover for the acquisition and sale of classified intelligence. The sale went sour… and that led to Nick's death," Pierce informed, voice steady and easy. Too steady and too easy.

Art shook her head adamantly, face going tense. She shook her head a second time, this time a little less pronounced, eyes and nose stinging with the threat of angry, frustrated tears. " _No_. That's not true… He kept secrets, yeah, but if you knew Nick Fury the way you say you do… _did_ … then you _know_ that is not true."

A mild smirk crawled across Pierce's face and he splayed his hands out in the air, like he was gesturing to their meeting.

"Why do you think we're talking? See, I took a seat on the Council not because I wanted to, but because Nick asked me to, because we were both realists. We knew that despite _all_ the… diplomacy and the handshaking and the rhetoric, that to build a really better world sometimes means having to tear the old one down. And that makes enemies." He turned away from the window and paced back towards them, hands shoved in his pockets. "Those people that call _you_ dirty because you got the guts to stick your hands in the mud to try and build something better. And the idea that those people could be happy today?" Pierce scoffed, the corner of his mouth and eye twitching. "Makes me really, _really_ angry. Lieutenant… you and the Captain were the last ones to see Nick alive, and I don't think that's an accident. And I don't think you do, either. So, I'm gonna ask again… why was he there?"

It felt like the air had been sucked from the room. It was so tense and so heavy that it was hard to breathe. Pierce's eyes were unyielding and there was no getting out of the question, especially not when he was staring so intently. She felt her body lock up under his intense gaze. Her hands tensed into fists again, her shoulders squared, and her chin raised. Something about him always put Art on ultra defense, like she was prepared for him to attack her. He eyed her like she was something he admired, but something that he also had a vast desire to break. It was chilling.

"I can only speculate, like anyone else. Maybe he just needed a friendly place to lie low for a bit," Art suggested, voice even and amazingly light. She inclined her head and rose to her feet.

"Is there anything else you can give me on this attacker? Anything more than… long hair, broad build, and blue eyes?" he inquired suddenly.

"He has an impressive skill set, and anyone who goes after him should be wary of that. I suspect that he can be incredibly ruthless, and that I caught him on strict orders to just hightail it out of there. Otherwise, I'd probably be worse off. Now, if you'll excuse me, Secretary Pierce." She dropped the file back onto the coffee table and started to step around the couch, intent on getting to the door as quick as possible without seeming suspicious.

"Lieutenant…" She halted in her tracks, but did not turn back around. "Someone murdered my friend and I'm gonna find out why. And I'll tell you what I told the Captain––if anyone gets in my way, they're gonna regret it. _Anyone_."

"Understood, Secretary Pierce," Art said, tone terse.

"And I would hate to lose you, Artemesia. You are… invaluable."

Those words propelled her towards the door, which she was quick to throw open and pull shut the minute she was through it. The door clipped her heel, however, which caused her to stumble a little and pull the door shut a little harder than she'd meant to. Steve looked up from where he'd been leaning against the wall, brows creased in concern. Art raised a hand and waggled it to dismiss the stumble and slam.

"Let's just… go, please." She started walking towards the elevator, Steve following close behind till he side-stepped her in order to walk beside her. "He feed you the same shit about Fury orchestrating the _Lemurian Star_ attack?"

"Yeah. He tell you not to get in the way?"

"I read it more as a threat and less of a 'telling,' but, yeah. _God_ , he gives me the heebie-jeebies…" Art slammed a knuckle against the elevator call button with unnecessary roughness. They stood there quietly for a moment, Steve facing the window, Art facing the elevator with her hands braced on her hips. A small twinge of worry buzzed through her and she turned her head towards Steve. "You… don't trust him, do you?"

Steve turned towards her, brows arched in an almost wry expression. The wryness of it was a relief, honestly, giving her a break from the tension of the morning. "Fury said to trust no one. Besides… the guy gives you the heebie-jeebies, why would I trust anyone who makes you uncomfortable?"

Art smiled and caught his hand with hers, their gloved palms pressed together tightly. The corner of Steve's mouth quirked a little, and he raised their clasped hands in order to kiss the exposed portion of her fingers. Just then the elevator dinged to signal its arrival, and their hands dropped and parted. Their little moment was a reprieve in the chaos that had been breaking around them. But it could only be a moment, because there was still much to do, much to figure out––what did they do next? Who could they trust? Would they have to operate under the radar? Upon entering the elevator, Steve walked to the back of it and grabbed the railing with both hands, hunching over tiredly to stare through the glass. Art leaned against the rail beside him, facing the elevator doors.

"Operations control," he commanded as the doors started to slide shut.

 _Confirmed._

Before the doors could completely close, a gloved hand appeared in the gap and swept downwards, preventing them from closing. Brock Rumlow and a small group of his task force appeared, slipping into the elevator.

"... keep all STRIKE personnel on site," Rumlow finished saying. He locked eyes with Art as one of his men confirmed his understanding by saying 'understood.' Art inclined her head to him, and he returned the gesture. "Forensics."

 _Confirmed_.

"Cap, Lieu," Rumlow officially greeted. Steve turned around and bobbed his head to acknowledge the greeting. He mimicked the way Art was leaning, hands clasped in front of his stomach, as the doors slipped shut.

"Rumlow."

They descended a couple of floors before Rumlow turned towards the two soldiers, breaking the vaguely tense silence that had filled the elevator. "Evidence Response found some fibers on the roof they want us to see. You want me to get the tac team ready?" He spoke quickly, like he was in a rush, which struck Art as a little odd. If they were prepared to spring into action any moment, the talking wouldn't have stopped––there would have been plan run downs, questions, answers, and orders. But there had been nothing but silence till now.

"No, let's wait and see what it is first," Steve decided, eyes downcast.

"Right."

Silence filled the elevator again, and the members of the STRIKE force started to shift around, spreading across the elevator rather than stay grouped in the corner like they had been. Art felt Steve bump a knuckle into the back of her hand; it wasn't an affectionate bump, rather one meant to capture her attention. With a slight turn of her head, she cast her eyes up at him. His brows were tightly furrowed, and his eyes darted towards one of the men towards the front of the glass lift. Her eyes followed his line of sight and landed on what he'd seen––the man's hand was rested firmly at the top of its holster, finger twitching over the snap that held the weapon in place. Art rolled her shoulders back a little, like she was relieving tension, and braced her feet a little further apart.

The elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors slid open, allowing some suits to slip in as they put in their request to stop at the administrations level. As the suits shoved their way towards the back, displacing Art and Steve so they were stood in the center of the elevator, Art caught the distressed call of her name. Looking up, she saw Harlowe bolting down the hall, vivid hair flouncing. Harlowe launched forward shoved his hand between the inch-wide crack of the elevator doors and stopped them from closing. He gave Art an apologetic look and jutted a gloved thumb over his shoulder.

"If you wouldn't mind, I need to have a word. It won't be but a minute, I promise," he told her, pressing a hand to his heart.

The words 'trust no one' shot to the forefront of her mind, heavy and pleading. But the look on Harlowe's face was so desperate, and he was eyeing the rest of the elevators occupants just as wearily as she had been. His face was flushed and there was hair sticking to some of the butterfly bandages that spanned the cut on his forehead. Art locked eyes with him, cleared her throat, and nodded.

"Of course, Harlowe." Just as her foot slid a step forward, Steve's hand sharply caught her wrist, fingers curled tight. There was a flash of warning in his eyes. Slowly, she raised her brows as the elevator doors dinged angrily at being held open for so long. "I'll meet you in the lobby, Steve." She watched as his eyes darted sharply to Harlowe, who held up a hand as he let his shoulder fall back against the junction of the doors to keep them open.

"I'll get her down to you when all's said and done, Captain, I promise. Not but a minute, just as I said."

With the muscles in his jaw tensing, Steve bobbed his head and released her wrist. She exited the lift and cast one last look inside of it. Her eyes locked with Steve's till the doors obscured their blueness from view. It was then that she turned to Harlowe, who had finally caught his breath and was smoothing hair out of his face. "What is it you need to talk to me about?"

There was a beat where Harlowe just stared at her, eyes jumping about her face, but with a prompting raise of Art's brows, his own shot upwards. His expression livened like he'd been broken out of a trance; he jutted a thumb over his shoulder at the hallway behind him. "D'you think we could maybe… speak in one of the conference rooms? It's… about last night. About what happened to the Director." His eyes started to nervously dance up and down the hall, and his hands started to twitch nervously against his thighs.

Art, too, took a wary glance about the halls and nodded her confirmation to his suggestion. She was on her guard as they walked, not just for those that they passed––who were all side-eyeing her as they brushed by––but for Harlowe as well. There was nothing that Art wanted more than to trust him; she'd entrusted him with much, and he'd entrusted her just the same. She wanted to believe that maybe he, too, was in on the the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised. That that was why he'd been eyeing the elevator passengers wearily, and why he was nervously glancing about. But despite instinct telling her that Richard Harlowe could be trusted, she was on her guard nonetheless.

Upon entering the empty conference room, Art realized that Harlowe was not dressed as his fellow STRIKE team members had been. He was wearing a bulletproof vest, an earpiece was slipped around his ear, and he was also wearing combat grade gloves. She watched as he pulled the door shut and felt her stomach drop when his fingers quietly tweaked the lock and rolled it into place. When Harlowe turned to face her, Art darted her eyes up quickly and arched her brows.

"What about last night do you need to discuss?"

Harlowe brought a hand up and ran it over his face, pacing away from the door and into the conference room. Its long, glossy table was surrounded by a number of black leather chairs, one of which Harlowe leaned against, seemingly to gather himself. Art waited patiently, standing halfway between him and the door. Eventually he pushed away from the chair and faced her with a crinkled expression. "I, uh, overheard you telling the Captain that you recognized Fury's attacker," Harlowe admitted slowly, arms crossing over his chest. "I'm… likely to be on the team that goes after him, so I was wondering if you could… tell me what you know about him. R-rather what you noticed about him. Advice. I'm looking for you to give me some advice."

Art cleared her throat and crossed her arms, almost mimicking the way that her friend was standing. She took a quiet moment to absorb what he'd asked her; he had danced around the point like he had been trying to find it in the first place. He hadn't met her eyes. He was shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. And her mind kept jumping back to the fact that they were locked in the room together.

"Richard––"

"Oh, _please_ , don't call me Richard…" he murmured brokenly, hands flying to his face. Art eyed him with a frown, her chest constricting at how distressed he sounded.

" _Richard_ … I have always known you to be a very concise man, and what you just old me was not very clear. Which leads me to believe that this conversation… that getting me into this conference room was a pretense. You're my friend, Richard, you are very dear to me… so I'd like to know why you locked the door when we came in." She hadn't meant to start using her Lieutenant voice, but it had just found its way into her words. It was a tone that left little to no room for argument, and firmly demanded results. Harlowe had been on the receiving end of that tone countless times, but he had never reacted the way that he did in that moment.

Harlowe start to pace wildly, hands reaching up to ruffle his hair as he paced. It sounded like he was muttering 'get it together' under his breath, but she couldn't be sure. Slowly, Art started to fully square-up; she rolled her shoulders back, dropped her arms, shifted her feet into a braced stance, and regarded her friend with wary eyes. She felt like she was watching a caged animal, one who was starved and confused and most certainly dangerous.

"Richard… what's going on?" she asked slowly, voice shifting into her lieutenant tone.

Harlowe came to a stop and buried his fingers into his locks of vibrant ginger hair, eyes scrunched shut. "I-I don't know if I can do this…"

"Do what, Richard?"

"I have to do this…"

"Does this have anything to do with your head? Did medical clear you for duty?" Art asked, throwing out another potential reason for his strange attitude.

"This isn't my head!" Harlowe exclaimed loudly, voice cracking.

"Then what is it, Richard!" Art demanded, voice rising. Harlowe's hands flew away from his face, forming tight fists as his face went bright pink.

" _Stop calling me Richard!_ " His voice cracked, his eyes scrunched shut, and a choked sob bottled up in his throat. Art stared at him wide eyed and turned her head to the side, lifting the wrist that her comm was attached to her mouth. She just barely registered the sound of heavy footfalls approaching her from behind.

A hand was clamped over Art's mouth and nose, and a whispered 'I'm sorry' just barely met her ears. Her hands clamped down onto the wrist, which she then started to pry away from her face. Just as she pulled the hand away from her mouth, Art felt something small, thin, and cold begin to prod at her neck. Her body went cold and stiff. Instinct kicked in and she spun away from the tell-tale feeling of a needle being pressed against flesh. She shifted her weight and kicked out a leg, her foot planting into her attacker's stomach, sending them to the floor.

Richard Harlowe stared up at her, wide-eyed, holding a hypodermic needle, his thumb poised over the plunger. Art gaped at him, breathing hard. She supposed that his betrayal shouldn't have hit her as hard as it did; she'd been told that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been compromised and that she couldn't trust anyone. Yet that information did little to dull the sting of the betrayal coming from a friend.

"Harlowe, what the hell!?" Art screeched.

"I'm so sorry, Artemesia," Harlowe exhaled, voice cracking. He scrambled back rose to his feet slowly, considering the item he held in his hand. His expression was broken and his eyes were glassy, lips harshly pulled into a genuine frown. "I really don't want to do this."

Art gaped at him as he advanced, his words and actions contradicting each other heavily. She batted his arms away when they reached for her and ducked around him. "Then don't do it!"

"I _have_ to…"

"No, you don't! You have a choice here, Harlowe! You always have a choice!"

Harlowe's face became grim. He raised his chin and swallowed thickly, his mouth falling open as he breathed heavily; his eyes were glassy with tears though his expression was dark and hopeless. He shook his head, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. "Not this time, Artie… not this time. You don't know what they'll do if they don't get you––they need you and I… I have to get you. I'm so sorry…"

With that said, he took a wild, emotional swing at her with the needle. Art ducked under his arm, the momentum of the swing sending him stumbling. She stumbled back a few steps herself, gaping at his reeling form. The only time she had ever fought a friend was when Loki had forced her to do so. And Harlowe _was_ her friend, he _had been_ her friend––but now she had to fight him off. Art had protected him from harm so many times that it seemed wrong that she would have to injure him. She didn't want to do it, but he seemed intent on coming after her, no matter how much the conflict in him raged.

" _Please_ , Richard…" Art quietly pleaded. He spun around, pain ripping across his face at the sound of his name leaving her lips.

"Stop… please stop saying my name." He started to advance on her, breathing harder with each step that he took. Art started to back towards the door, one hand stretching out behind her so she could gauge when she was there––and so that she could throw the lock and run.

"I don't want to hurt you," she stated. As cliché as it sounded, it was true––with her super-strength in play, it was incredibly likely that, if she fought back and went all for it, he would get hurt.

"Unfortunately, I have to count on that," he informed shakily.

"Does it make you feel guilty? Me saying your name like a friend? Because you _are_ my friend, Richard, and I _don't_ wish harm upon you… but now I have to question if you were ever really mine, or if you care that I could make it out of this scathed."

He dove for her again, a strangled cry grating out between his gritted teeth. One hand grabbed for her while the other hoisted the needle high, to prevent an early or misplaced sticking. Art ducked around him again, but only managed to run a few steps before a long, lanky arm caught her around the waist and dragged her into Harlowe's chest. He spun her around so her back was pressed to his front, his hand grabbing at her jaw to force it upwards. The hand with the needle descended upon her, but Art's hand shot upwards, captured his wrist and forced it back up with a super-strength that he couldn't fight. His arm grunted and shook as he tried to struggle against her. There were no more whispered 'I'm sorry's. No more choked back sobs. Just the pure drive and determination that Art had always admired in him. Harlowe was now pushing past his emotions to act upon his given orders, whatever they were. There was no more playing nice for him; he was clearly scared of the consequences of not fulfilling his mission, and that was enough to drive anyone into a panicked frenzy.

The world slipped into a mild haze that always accompanied the strange hyperfocus battle mode she sometimes fell into. Her furrowed brows relaxed, the tense gnarl of her lips disappeared, and then, the haze sharpened drastically. The hand that clung tightly to Harlowe's wrist twisted and pushed, testing the limits of his flexibility. There was a pop and pained cry. The needle tumbled from his hand and fell to the floor. Art's foot immediately darted out to kick it across the room, and then swept back and up into Harlowe's groin. While he groaned, Art wrenched herself out of his hold, grabbed his dislocated wrist and gave it a harsh squeeze. He cried out and instinctively curled in on himself, slinking towards the floor. Once he was on his knees, Art dropped to one of hers behind him. She wrapped an arm around his neck and placed a hand atop his head of ginger hair. It wasn't long before he started to fight against her hold, struggling to gasp for air as Art cut his supply of it off. She stared blankly across the room as he struggled. No emotion passed through her eyes, twitched at the corners of her mouth, or quirked her brows.

Not long after, Harlowe went slack. Art guided him to slouch backwards into her chest, instead of slumping forward onto the floor. The arm that had been looped around his neck disappear and instead brought her hand to hover beneath his nose. For a few quiet moments, she monitored his breathing. Then the hyper-focus slipped away. Art blinked rapidly, shook her head a little, and stared down at the top of Harlowe's head. She carefully shifted him into a prone position and placed his injured wrist over his stomach. With a harsh frown on her lips, Art rubbed a hand over her face and then brought her comm to her mouth.

"Steve, do you copy?" Her voice was shaking. No answer. " _Steve_ , do you copy?" Nothing once again. " _Shit_ …" If Harlowe has been sent after her, she could only guess that Rumlow and his boys had been sent for Steve. And the fact that he wasn't responding was not a good sign.

She rose to her feet and marched to the door, where she twisted the lock and opened it. No sooner had she stepped out into the hall, did a force of the STRIKE team come barrelling around the corner. They all dropped into formation, guns at the ready, heavy armor on, prepared to attack. Art stared at them wide eyed, chest still heaving from her previous fight.

"Lieutenant Knoll! _Hands in the air!_ " one shouted.

All of their weapons were aimed at her and their safeties were all off. It was a dreadful, final confirmation that Fury was right––S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised and they were going to take down anyone who got in their way. And, currently, _she_ was in their way. Her eyes bounced over familiar faces peering at her from behind riot shields and protective headgear. There were too many of them, anyone could see that. If she fought them, there was a chance she'd get past them, but there was also the chance that they would call for backup and she would be detained. Or sedated. Or whatever the hell it was Harlowe was trying to do.

Art started to back away, slowly at first, before she spun on her heel and darted back towards the elevator, hooking around the corner when she approached it. She could hear the team mobilizing, jogging down the hall as fast as they could with their gear weighing them down. Art made the executive decision, then, to duck into the stairwell. Once she was on the other side of the door, she grabbed the handle and yanked the door shut. Her fingers curled around the lever handle and with her face crumpling with focus, Art tore the handle clean off. She started her descent, jogging and leaping down the steps, winding her way down from the twenty eighth floor. By the time her feet hit the landing of the twenty-fifth floor, the door to the stairwell on the twenty-sixth was kicked open. Art skid to a halt and peered down at the rest of the stairs she would have to descend. With all the turning she had to do, and the fact there were some twenty-five more access points to the stairwell, she would get caught eventually. Swearing under her breath, Art climbed over the stairwell railing and looked down. There was just enough space between the winding staircases for her to be able to drop.

Just as the STRIKE team hit level twenty-five, Art let go of the railing and dropped. After falling for a couple seconds, her fingers caught a railing. Her shoulder joints screamed at the impact they'd been forced to endure, and she hissed at the stinging. But it was getting her through the building faster, and that's what she needed. Further and further she dropped, stopping herself every few floors. By the time she was on ground level, her shoulders and wrists were throbbing, and her forehead was beaded with sweat. Art threw her body against the door that led into the lobby, stumbling over herself as the door swung open. People gasped in surprise at her sudden appearance and a couple asked if she was okay. But she tripped into a jog and burst into the atrium to see Steve sprawled across the ground in a spray of shattered glass. He struggled to his feet, movements jerky and pain filled, and started to run nonetheless. Art sprinted after him and slipped a little on the shattered glass.

Art followed Steve to the stairwell that descended to the garage; and upon hearing a second set of footsteps behind him, Steve spun around fist poised to punch. Art lurched a step back, hands thrown up as she tried to catch her breath, which had escaped her long ago. "Just me," she panted out, words barely vocalized. Steve's shoulders relaxed a little and his hand dropped. But it was no time for sentiments, as they could hear the babble of the STRIKE team rushing towards them.

"We gotta go."

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**And we'll pick up mid-action on the next one! I have been waiting to write this sequence for FOREVER. It was harder than I expected, but I had fun figuring it out and finally baring Harlowe's secret nature, which a lot of you guessed. I was going to make their fight a little longer, but it seemed like the fighting was gonna get a little too long-winded. That's the thing about action sequences––when you write them, they just keep going on forever.**_

 _ **Review Replies!**_

 **Carpe Diem Vampire:** _I didn't have her recognize his eyes in the last chapter because I think she was too emotionally driven by Fury's shooting to really be cognitive enough to be like 'shit, I know those eyes.' If she'd been in a more cognitive headspace, she might have. But she does recognize them as familiar in this chapter, so that's a thing. And we'll get to see more of her puzzling through the familiarity and recognition til they're hit with the big news of who it is. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Nina fo life:** _Thank you! I struggled with writing her fight with the Winter Soldier last chapter because there was an aspect of it I had planned to be in it for a_ _ **very**_ _long time, then realized it didn't fit anymore with the way the story has gone. So I did a lot of heavy editing, but I'm happy to hear it turned out well! And I was worried that Artie flitted through too many emotions last chapter, so I'm happy to hear that it didn't come off as emotional whiplash. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **emmagnetised:** _I can't wait to bring Sam back into this story and build his friendship with Artie; I feel like when those two get sassin', there will be no stopping them. And Steve's gonna have to face the brunt of that hilarity, and I'm READY for it. There'll be more on that brainwashing soon… and you're right. It's probably gonna hurt. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **monkeybaby:** _Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!_

 **Kimberly:** _Winter Soldier is actually my favorite MCU movie, so I'm working nice and hard to do it justice. I'm glad that you've been enjoying Steve and Artie being hopeless romantics who barely know what to do with themselves. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **CuppaTea13:** _I'm super happy that you've enjoyed the stories so far! I've had a blast getting to write Steve and Artie and all their adorableness, and I'm excited that you've enjoyed reading it all that much, too. I've got some real nice surprises in store for Winter Soldier, so I hope that you'll stick around to find out what happens! Thanks again, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!_

 **anonymouscsifan:** _So, when Agent Carter was on air (we were robbed of more seasons, I'm so upset about it), I thought of what it would have been like if Artie had been spared from the ice. I thought of how she would probably have ended up working with Peggy and that she'd have spent more time with Howard, who admired her very, very much. That was how that little visual of Howard and Steve fighting over her came to be––'cause I feel like if Artie hadn't fallen for Steve so quickly and he hadn't fallen for her so quickly, that fight could've been a thing. And there's ever more mystery surrounding Bucky and Artie and her memories… I hope that you stick around to read more! Thanks again!  
_ **HotaruKenobi:** _I'm happy that my other stories have led you here and that you're enjoying this story as well! I hope on getting Sherlock updated soonish, but I've had a bit of a block on that one for a couple weeks. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the new chapter; thanks again!_

 **Guest:** _Here's an update––I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks again!_

 _ **And thank you to those that have added this story to their follows/favorites––it means a lot!**_

 _ **And that is that for now. We'll pick back up with a nice bit of motorcycle riding and escaping and see where it goes from there. Thank you again for taking the time to read the chapter; you all rock!  
~Mary**_


	8. Sepia Tone

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

8\. Sepia Tone

Art hastily shoved her suit into a duffle bag, the fabric carelessly balled up instead of carefully folding it like she usually did. Her boots went in after it and the whole ensemble was sealed inside with the swift yank of a zipper. The uniform had been replaced by nondescript gym-wear. Nothing about the black and grey articles of clothing telegraphed who she was, and that was exactly what she needed. That was the reason she and Steve had retreated to their usual gym after narrowly escaping from the Triskelion; it gave them the chance to ditch their tracker laden suits and slip into something that would let them go unnoticed. Art shrugged on a rather large sweatshirt––it was one that Steve had lended her––and pulled up the hood so it hid her face in partial shadow. With that done, she strode out of the locker room calmly and re-entered the gymnasium. She deposited the bag on a set of bleachers and then propped her foot up in order to tug at the laces. All of this was done casually as not to arouse suspicion; but inside Art's chest her heart was thundering. It wouldn't be long before S.H.I.E.L.D. was on their asses. And once they were, the chase would start all over again.

A duffle bag was slung onto the bleachers beside Art's.

"We need to go," said Steve, his voice low. Without looking up at him, Art nodded to agree and finished double-knotting her sneakers. She then reached into the front pocket of her duffle bag and extracted a handful of cash; it had been a habit of hers to leave money in jacket pockets since she was a teenager. And it still hadn't let up, even with her introduction to credit cards. The cash was shoved into the front pocket of her sweatshirt alongside her retracted staff.

" _Where_ do we go?" she asked. It was obvious that they couldn't go back to their apartment; it had likely already been––or was in the process of being––raided. Aside from their residence, there wasn't really anywhere else that they could go in hopes of lying low. The only other place they could have considered was Richard Harlowe's apartment, but since he had shown his true colors, the place was clearly off the board. In fact, because S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised, there wasn't _anyone_ they could think of that she could feasible ask to help them. It was entirely possible that if they _did_ lay their trust in a fellow agent that they would be ratted out in an instant.

"Hospital," Steve said in a decided tone of voice. He placed a hand on the small of Art's back and placed a gentle pressure there, which turned her away from the bleachers and towards the door. "We have to get Fury's thumb drive."

Art stretched out a hand to push the gymnasium door open; the spacious lobby of the recreation center was dotted with a handful of people, but not so many that it would be a problem. And everyone was so absorbed with their own daily routine that they didn't see past Steve and Art's drawn hoods. "I've got some cash, we can grab a taxi."

"Is a taxi the best thing?" Steve inquired with a reasonable amount of doubt lacing his tone.

"If we walk or run to the hospital, we'll get picked up on innumerable security systems. Someone would probably take a picture of us and put it up on social media. We both know S.H.I.E.L.D. monitors both those things like a hawk; we'd get taken down in minutes. All we need to do is give the destination, keep our heads low, and pay the cabbie when we get there," Art reasoned as they exited the building. "We've ditched the suits, so long as no one tips them off we should be fine."

The tense silence that followed those words spoke for itself; Steve and Art had worked with the men and women currently tasked with hunting them down. They knew that those agents worked with ruthless efficiency. They knew that the moment they caught wind of where the super soldiers had gone, there would be a team on them faster than they could blink. There was every chance that they weren't going to be 'fine' by the end of the day. But that wasn't something that they could linger on; if they did, it would surely sign their death sentence. They had to stay focused. They had to get the thumb drive––they had to figure out what had caused S.H.I.E.L.D. to turn against them.

OOOO

By some miracle, Steve and Art made it to the hospital unscathed. It was a whole other task to maneuver through the building without being noticed. They had to be slow going. They had to appear calm. The minute they slipped up they would be on the clock again. But years of stealth missions and having to go unnoticed in relatively public places paid off for the duo. They managed to slip back into the area of the hospital Steve had hidden the thumb drive without cause for alarm. As Steve approached the vending machine, Art casually leaned against the wall beside it to keep watch. It didn't take long for Art to realize that something was wrong; Steve's shoulders had tensed and his brows had furrowed. Before she could inquire what was wrong, a familiar red head appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

Natasha met Art's eyes and puckered her lips before blowing a bubble of cheery pink gum. It snapped and deflated as Steve turned away from the vending machine. His eyes, which were set below a sternly furrowed brow, were fixed on Nat with a piercing accusation. She merely stared back, a faint twitch pulling at one of her eyebrows. Steve had mentioned that he'd hidden the thumb drive behind a pack of bubblegum––and Art could only presume that Nat had found it. Any other day, her appearance would have felt like a godsend; but since they didn't know how deep S.H.I.E.L.D.'s corruption ran, they had to be careful. Without warning, Steve lurched a step forward, seized Natasha by the elbow, and walked her backwards towards a room opposite the vending machine. Art was quick to follow, looking up and down the hall to make sure no one had seen.

Steve had none-too-gently shoved the door to the room open, so Art was quick to shut it and draw the shades once inside. Steve had Natasha backed up against a wall almost instantly, a hand darting up to shove his hood back. Nat was staring at him intently from under furrowed brows, a slight wave of surprise having washed over her face upon being slammed against the wall.

"Where is it?" Steve demanded.

"Safe," came the simple reply.

" _Do better_." His tone was unforgiving and cold. It was clear he was heeding Fury's advice about trusting no one, especially someone who had openly admitted she had been operating under secret, special orders before.

"How'd you get it?"

"Why would I tell you?"

Realization washed over Nat's face as her eyes darted between Art and Steve. "Fury gave it to you," she stated knowingly. "Why?"

Steve's expression had calmed some, though they retained the tell-tale sternness of Captain America. "What's on it?"

"I don't know."

" _Stop lying_ ," Steve demanded, his second hand rising to grasp Nat's other arm and give her the smallest of shakes.

" _Steve_ ," Art warned. When he glanced back at her, she pointedly eyed the grip he'd taken on Natasha's arms. It was tight and unyielding. There had been something in Nat's expression when Steve had taken hold of her that didn't suggest she was against them. If she _was_ against them, there would have been a fight the moment Steve's fingers had grazed her jacket sleeve. With a relenting, vaguely harsh sigh through his nose, Steve released the spy's arms. Nat darted her eyes towards Art in a quietly thankful glance.

"I only _act_ like I know everything, Rogers," Nat bit out, clearly not taking kindly to being manhandled. There was a rattling outside the door, which snagged Art's attention. She lifted one of the slats on the blinds and peered through––it was just a custodian passing by with his cart.

"I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn't you?" Steve inquired. Nat blinked at him rapidly in response, processing the information lowly spat her way.

"Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in, so do you."

Steve's hands flew to her biceps, jostling her a little. " _I'm not gonna ask you again_."

There was a fleeting pause.

"I know who killed Fury," Nat announced. The tension in the room did not lessen at the proclamation––it rose. But Steve's hands dropped from Nat's arms. He shuffled half a step back. Art kept a hand pressed against the door, but her friend and comrade had her wholehearted attention. "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists; the ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last _fifty years_."

"So he's a ghost story," Steve surmised, unimpressed.

"Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Someone shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, we went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer so he shot him––straight through me." It was there that Nat lifted up the hem of her shirt to reveal a thick ribbon of scar tissue to the left of her bellybutton. "Soviet slug, no rifling." Just like the ones that had hit Fury. Nat cheekily quirked an eyebrow. "Bye-bye bikinis."

"Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now," Steve deadpanned blandly.

"Going after him is a dead-end. I know––I've tried." She extracted the thumb drive from her pocket, offering it up. "Like you said, he's a ghost story."

Steve held Nat's gaze for a tense moment. He searched her face as though it would tell him if she were trustworthy or not. He reached up and took the drive; and in accepting it, he accepted her as an ally once again. "Well, let's find out what the ghost wants."

"Before we do that," Art cut in, drawing their attention, "there's something you should know, Nat."

"Does it have anything to do why you two look like you're trying to be incognito?" There was a slight emphasis on 'trying,' which prompted Art to offer up a deadpan expression.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is compromised." Art watched Nat's face fall, a question lingering on her parted, but silent, lips. Art sighed and leaned back against the door, pushing up the too-long sleeves of her sweatshirt. "By who, we don't know, and for how long is another mystery. But what we do know is that they are _very_ intent on herding Steve and I into custody. They launched a full on attack on us to try and take us down. They played dirty… By allying yourself with us, you're putting yourself on their shit list," Art warned.

Nat rolled her shoulder back and gently arched her eyebrows. She expertly recomposed herself and even managed a small smile. "Wouldn't be the first time. If they're really after you as desperately you say they are, then we need to get moving. I've turned being on the run into an artform; I'll teach you the tricks."

OOOO

The item at the top of their list was to find better incognito outfits, as walking around in their activewear wasn't the best way to blend in. That was how they found themselves at Pentagon City Mall, changing into newly purchased clothes in cramped bathroom stalls. They had shopped under guidelines that Nat had given them and successfully walked out of the department store with new outfits. The trick, Nat had told them, was to not necessarily dress like themselves. Dress enough outside of their typical fashion that they wouldn't be immediately identifiable at first glance. But at the same time they needed to take into account that they would more than likely end up running so they needed to accommodate that. No bright colors. Hats and hoods were a plus. Layers were good to throw off people if they were shed.

Art awkwardly tied the laces of her new sneakers, bracing one foot against the stall wall. She then shoved her fully retracted staff into her jacket pocket, which she zipped up in order to keep it safe. Once the laces were knotted, she slipped out of the stall and binned her old clothes. Now face-to-face with a mirror, she was given the chance to put the final touches on her new outfit. She tugged on the hem of a 'vintage' Star Wars t-shirt in a nice heather grey to straighten it out; 'vintage' here meaning that the logo was faded and purposefully made to look like it had been put through the wash one too many times. Art pulled the hood of a thin dusty purple hoodie up over her head and shrugged on an acid washed denim jacket, which topped off the layered look. Art made a bit of a face and took a step away from the mirror, squinted her eyes, and tried to see if she didn't recognize herself in the clothes she now wore.

"Just take your hair down, ruffle it a bit, and put this on," Nat advised, handing Art a black scarf. Art took the length of fabric, dropped the hood, and looped it around her neck. It was a little out of season, but it gave her something to quickly hide her face in if she needed to. She took her hair down and ruffled it as instructed, letting it messily fall around her face.

"And no one's gonna recognize me?" Art asked doubtfully.

Nat smirked and pulled up the hood of her striped hoodie, expertly letting it sit at a fashionable placement. "You'd be surprised at how people are quick to dismiss you as a look-alike when you're not dressed like yourself. No one's gonna expect to see Lieutenant Liberty dressed in an acid washed denim jacket and purple high tops."

For the first time that day, Art laughed a little, lips lifting in the faintest of smiles. "No, they probably wouldn't."

Once they were pleased with their incognito looks, Nat and Art left the women's bathroom. Steve was situated across from the door, hands shoved into his new pair of jeans, head bowed and hidden by the bill of his black baseball cap. He looked up expectantly and a look of relief washed over his face upon spotting both women. Just like Art and Nat, Steve had gone for a t-shirt, hoodie, and jacket, all of which were set in neutral or subdued colors. He'd also gone for a pair of cosmetic, black-framed glasses. All together, he was suitably disguised, and if anyone did a double-take, they could probably easily dismiss him as an uncanny look-alike. Nat nodded for them to head back into the busy mall. It was unnerving taking their first steps into the mid-afternoon crowds; it was hard for them to go to the grocery store without the clerk recognizing them––they were in a _mall_. Everyone there would have a field day if the recognized any one of the three Avengers. They didn't know if someone back at the Triskelion had spotted them on security footage. They didn't know if there were agents combing the mall. Everything was doused in the unknown and that was _terrifying_.

"The first rule of going on the run is don't run, walk," Nat informed lowly. She was straight faced and neutral as they headed towards a destination that only she knew the placement of. Somewhere they could take a look at the thumb drive. That was what they were all doing––walking. Albeit, they were walking _quickly_ , but not so quickly that people wouldn't just dismiss them as being determined shoppers. Steve looked over his shoulder almost nervously upon nearly shouldering someone who walked by.

"If I run in these shoes they're gonna fall off," Steve replied flatly in reference to the cheap sneakers he wore.

"We won't run, then," Art pegged on almost cheekily.

"We might not have that option."

"And it would do you both good if you actually held hands; if you're gonna bicker like an old married couple, at least act like one," Nat butted in. "You should know by now that people are _very_ open about their relationships nowadays."

"Couples held hands back in our day," Steve contested.

Nat smirked over at him and darted her eyes at his hands before she lead them into the Apple Store. With a gentle roll of her eyes, Art tangled her fingers with Steve's and pulled on his hand so they could follow their friend. Natasha had situated herself in front of one of the display laptops, exiting out of the windows that the last person using it had pulled up. Steve and Art flanked her on either side, angling their bodies so passer-bys wouldn't be able to see the screen past them. Steve stood to her right, Art to her left.

"The drive has a Level Six homing program, so as soon as we boot up, S.H.I.E.L.D. will know exactly where we are," Nat warned, withdrawing the drive from her pocket. Steve made a casual visual sweep of the store, gaze sharp and ultra attentive.

"How long have we got?"

"About nine minutes from…" Nat plugged the thumb drive into a port on the side of the computer, "now."

Art adopted a casual one-handed lean against the table, trying to look like a customer casually interested in the computer. But as she did so, she made sure to keep a sharp eye open for any unusual activity towards the store front. Steve seemed to be doing the same in the opposite direction, which gave Nat the ability to direct the whole of her attention on accessing the files on the drive. To anyone who had worked with the tac teams at S.H.I.E.L.D., spotting them in a crowd was like spotting a sore thumb. If someone from the organization even briefly flitted past the store, Art would know.

"Fury was right about that ship… somebody's trying to hide _something_ … This drive is protected by some sort of AI.… It keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands."

"But you can override it, right?" Art asked, pushing off the table in order to cross her arms.

"The person who developed this is slightly smarter than me–– _slightly_ ," Nat stressed as she continued to type away. A series of blue-green windows popped up on screen, words that made little sense to Art flashing across them as Nat worked wickedly quick to get everything done. "I'm gonna try running a tracer. This is a program that S.H.I.E.L.D. developed to track hostile malware… so, if we can't _read_ the file, maybe we can find out where it came from…" A map of the upper eastern seaboard popped up, a series of lines and circles popping up as it tried to triangulate the location of the file.

"Can I help you guys with anything?"

All three perked up and turned towards the happy, kind-faced employee that was sidling up to them. He was tall with impressively long, blonde hair, a generous beard, and an eager smile. Art gaped at him dumbly for a moment, having been startled at the sudden attention they were receiving. A proper response to his question didn't rise to the forefront of her mind quick enough; but, thankfully, Nat was quick on her feet. She grinned and squeezed Art's shoulders dropping her chin to rest atop one of them.

"No––I'm helping my sister and her fiancé look for honeymoon locations," she said brightly, her tone almost sickly sweet. Nat slipped back to the computer and Steve stepped forward to loop an arm around Art's shoulders. She reciprocated by winding an arm around his middle and placing a fond hand in the middle of his chest. Steve put on a smile and tucked her into his side in a loving manner.

"Right, we're getting married," he agreed.

"It's been a long time coming," Art added on with a little laugh.

The employee, who looked genuinely pleased to hear the news, beamed at them. "Congratulations! Where you guys thinking about going?" He peered over Art's head and Steve's shoulder to look at the computer screen.

Art felt her heart leap into her throat, panic swiftly coursing through her veins. Both she and Steve craned their heads around to look at what Nat had pulled up and was only slightly relieved to see that the map was the only visible thing. A circle appeared on screen along with bold lettering that spelled out 'NEW JERSEY.'

"New Jersey," Steve said flatly. It didn't exactly scream honeymoon location, but it was going to have to do. He just nodded, struggling to find a way to explain the strange destination. Art turned a dazzling smile back to the employee and managed a small laugh.

"We went there on vacation last year––went to the coast, spent some days in the sun. He proposed on the beach, he had the entire thing perfectly planned… thought it just seemed fitting that we go back, y'know?" Art pretended to enthuse.

The employee bobbed his head, smiling wider.

"Super romantic, it sounds like a movie," he agreed. He then eyed Steve critically, mouth dropping open, hand rising to waggle a finger at Steve. What looked to be recognition crossed his face and both Steve and Art froze up with worry, expressions dropping. "I have the _exact_ same glasses."

Relief swept through Art's system, and she felt Steve physically relax beside her. The arm that was not wrapped around her shoulders rose so he could fix the fit of his glasses.

"Wow, you two could be twins," drawled Natasha.

"Yeah," the employee scoffed, "I wish." He rocked a step backwards, lifted both hands in a 'stop' sort of motion and dragged them down to gesture to the whole of Steve's torso. " _Specimen_." He laughed a little, arms swinging as they dropped. Art cocked her head to the side a little, expression falling some. She looked up to Steve and watched the muscles in his jaw tick at the typically cold, sterile sounding scientific term. It made him sound like a science experiment. And 'science experiment' was something that Tony used to call him to piss him off––something that, on bad days, Steve described himself as in a spiteful tone. Art gently pat his chest and squeezed his middle reassuringly. It was a moment before the employee regained some composure. "If you guys need anything," he raised his nametag, "I've been Aaron."

"Thank you," Steve said. Aaron walked away with a friendly smile and a wave, on to find the next patron to engage with. The minute his back was turned, Steve and Art released each other and turned back to Nat. Anxiously, the blonde soldier pushed the sleeve of his jacket back to look at his watch. "You said nine minutes, c'mon."

"Relax…" Nat drew out, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Got it." The map on the screen flickered and changed as it zoomed in and honed in on a specific place––Wheaton, New Jersey. Steve, with furrowed brows, leaned in towards the screen like he'd read the town name wrong. The name of the town was familiar, Art did have to admit that, but she couldn't place why. Nat stepped aside a little, shared a look with Art––who shrugged, just as at a loss as the red head was––and then glanced back at the screen. "You know it?"

"I used to. Let's go," Steve urged, snatching the thumb drive from the computer. The screen of the computer flickered before it returned to factory settings, greeting the next user with the word 'welcome' flickering across the screen in various languages.

While they exited the store, walking a little faster than the pace they had entered with, Art caught eye of two men dressed mostly in black. The clothes were civilian, yes, but their sharply furrowed brows, unyielding eyes, and square shouldered, straight-backed stride gave them away. She snagged Steve's hand, squeezed his fingers, and darted her eyes towards the men once she'd gotten his attention. He squeezed her fingers to let her know that he saw, their pace quickening just a fraction more.

"Standard tac team," Steve informed, casing the rest of the area as casually as he could manage. "Two behind, two across… two coming straight at us. If they make us, I'll engage, you two hit the south escalator to the metro."

Just as he said, two men were headed in their direction, looking decidedly more severe than the civilians milling around them. It was evident that, no matter which way they turned, they were going to run into someone from S.H.I.E.L.D.. The only thing they could do was hope that their luck would hold out. Art shook her head, eyeing the crowd around them; she saw families enjoying an afternoon out, teenagers milling around aimlessly but happily, and others still speed-walking to get to their destination like it was a mission.

"We shouldn't engage in such a public place, too many people could get hurt," she pointed out on an exhale.

"Both of you shut up. Steve, put your arm around me; Artie, put your arm around Steve. Laugh at something I said," she instructed.

"What?" Steve asked, mildly confused.

"Do it."

With the agents feet away, Steve slung his arm over Nat's shoulder, turned his head to the side, and started to laugh. Art kept her grip tight on his hand but leaned into his side, and ducked her head; she laughed, which released the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. They passed the men with ease and without notice being taken. With surprise etched across his face, Steve looked over his shoulder to watch the two men keep stomping on, not once glancing back at the group of friends they had just passed. Art huffed out a breath in relief and threaded fingers through her hair.

"Alright, new plan––we get to the parking garage, we borrow a car, and we hit the road. There's garage access a floor down and the escalator is just up ahead," Art suggested.

"How do you mean 'borrow'?" Natasha asked.

"Hotwire," she elaborated under her breath. "It's easy enough."

Before any further questions could be asked, the trio took their place on a narrow, descending escalator. For a moment, a fleeting moment, all seemed well and it appeared they wouldn't have anymore trouble. Trouble unfortunately made a reappearance as Brock Rumlow, who was riding the adjacent escalator upwards, his eyes dutifully scanning the people surrounding him.

"Oh, shit…" Art muttered. She turned her head in the opposite direction, trying to tug the side of her scarf up so it would obscure more of her face. Before Steve could question the reason behind the uttered expletive, Natasha, who was a step lower than him and Art, spun around and fixed a pleading look on the two soldiers.

"Kiss each other," she demanded.

" _What?_ " Steve stressed in surprise. Art's eyes fluttered at the strange command. She couldn't see how it was appropriate in the moment, especially with Rumlow inching towards them––and she had _no doubt_ that man would launch himself onto their escalator and take them down the instant he recognized him.

"Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable," Natasha explained flatly.

Steve fixed her with a look. "Yes, they do."

In a moment of snap realization, Art knew why Natasha had demanded the display of affection. Rumlow wouldn't linger on the image of a couple sharing a kiss on the adjoining escalator; he would pay them no mind, and likely skip over anyone in their close vicinity. So Art quickly turned to Steve, rose up on her toes a little, placed a hand on his cheek, and drew his face down to hers. She caught his lips in a firm kiss, which startled him briefly. One of his hands appeared on her hip, a reflexive gesture to pull her closer. It was the first time they had kissed in such a public setting, and it was a little strange. Both of them smelled like off-the rack department store clothes, and Art felt a little over heated thanks to her scarf. She could hear the man behind them cluck his tongue in a 'c'mon, really?' sort of way, and she could hear a woman admonishing him and say something about 'young love.' After a handful of seconds passed––seconds that felt like minutes––Art drew away, falling flat on her feet again. They stared at one another for a quiet moment, Art's hand still cupping his cheek, his hand still on her hip.

"You still uncomfortable?" Natasha teased a step below them. She was already striding off the elevator by the time the couple fully detached themselves from one another. Art cleared her throat and followed Nat off quickly, jumping the last step.

Steve also cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders back as he followed both of the women. "It's not exactly the word I would use."

OOOO

It didn't take terribly long to find a vehicle to 'borrow,' as Art had put it. The navy blue Chevy truck had been left unlocked by its trusting owner, not suspecting that two super soldiers and a spy would eye it up as their target. Natasha had watched in mild amazement as Art checked the sun visor for a spare key, looking completely at ease in the face of committing grand theft auto. She had then dropped below the steering wheel to hotwire the car, asking no questions while Steve kept a dutiful watch at the truck's bumper. It was to Natasha's _full_ amazement when the car was successfully hotwired with complete and utter ease. Art and Steve had navigated the situation like they'd done it a thousand times before, like there was choreography and a secret, silent language. Steve would tap on the side of the truck if anyone was about to pass by, and Art would slip out and make it look like she was trying to grab something from the passenger seat. It was remarkable––surprising––but remarkable.

The drive to New Jersey wasn't terribly long, but it gave everyone a chance to relax for a minute. Art had opted to sit in the back seat, stretching herself out for the first hour in order to prop up her aching feet. Steve had offered to drive, which left Nat in the passenger's seat. They'd been quiet for a while, their lack of energy evidence of how much the stress of the day had taken a toll on them. Art thought she must have dozed off for a while, because when she closed her eyes they had been in Maryland; now suitably a little sleepy and sitting up in the back seat, she saw they had just passed a sign that welcomed them to New Jersey.

"Where did Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty learn to steal a car?" Natasha asked curiously. The cab of the truck was filled with the gentle, vaguely golden light of the early evening, which didn't do much to help with Art's sleepiness. She yawned and shifted herself into the middle of the backseat bench.

"Nazi Germany," Steve informed.

"Sometimes your car got stolen and left you in a pinch. Sometimes having a vehicle of any sort––truck, car, take your pick––meant life or death. So, you just had to steal one and make up for the loss of your wheels," Art elaborated. She leaned forward, elbows braced on the shoulder of either front seat. She rubbed at an eye to rid it of sleep.

"You seemed like a real natural," Nat teased with a smirk. Art shrugged and laughed a little, recalling the number of occasions she'd had to nick a car. Once or twice she had been lucky enough to find the keys under the sun visor.

"Surprised I've still got it locked into memory, haven't had to do it in a good while. Last time was… France? I think… fingers were half frozen, it was snowing… almost Christmas…" The memory was foggy, but she remembered there had been a whole lot of swearing as the wires shorted out against her finger tips.

"And unlike our time in Nazi Germany, we're _borrowing_ ––take your feet off the dash," Steve instructed, nodding to Nat's feet.

Nat stared at him for a moment, smirking mildly, before she slowly removed her feet from atop the dashboard. While her feet shuffled to find a new comfortable position, the spy eyed Steve, and then Art, narrowed her eyes a little, a smirked a little wider.

"Alright, I've got a question for you two––which you do not have to answer. I mean, think _I_ know the answer, but I've gotta be sure, and I'm curious––"

" _What?_ " Steve stressed. It was evident by his tone that he was exhausted, stressed beyond belief, and not sure if he could keep up idle chit-chat for much longer. Art placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, though she felt much the same. Being on the run was exhausting, and they'd never had to do it before. Nat was used to it––they were not.

A sly smile had appeared on Natasha's face. "That was _not_ your first kiss since nineteen-forty-five, right?"

Despite the tiredness on his face, a faint smile tugged at the corner of Steve's mouth. Art laughed a little breathily, head dropping to hand between her shoulders.

"It looked that bad, huh?" Steve questioned in a flat, but good natured, tone.

"I didn't say that," Nat replied, tone conveying innocence.

"It kinda sounds like that's what you're saying."

" _No_ , it's just… I know that in the forties dating was a lot different than it is now and I was just… curious, y'know? You've both been flirting more openly, but the most PDA thing I've ever seen either of you do is hold hands or kiss cheeks."

"No, it was _not_ our first kiss since nineteen-forty-five," Art settled, a vaguely entertained smile on her face. She arched a brow at Natasha, who raised both of hers and shrugged innocently. From the driver's seat, Steve snorted gently.

"We're ninety-five and ninety-four respectively, we're not dead," he deadpanned.

"But, seriously, how much as the dating scene changed for you guys?" Natasha asked curiously. Art considered the question quietly for a moment before she shrugged. "It was more formal, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Men were always expected to get you at the door and drop you off at the door when the date was over. Both parties were supposed to dress their best, be on their best behavior. And there was absolutely no going over to the other's residence after the fact; dates were something to be had in the public eye, not the privacy of your own home if you were unmarried. There are exceptions to every norm, of course, but, y'know," Art agreed.

"So the whole 'no sex before marriage' thing isn't all blown out of proportion?"

" _Kinda_ ," Art stressed on a little sigh. "I mean, it was war time. People were scared of losing their loved ones, married or not; fear of that kind of loss will make you express your love in any way you can. But it wasn't like it ruined 'marriage prospects' like it would've for our parents. It was more of a personal choice by the time we were in our twenties."

"By the time Artie and I were old enough to consider dating of any sort, the ideals of the time were already changing. Steering more away from the traditions of our parents and becoming a little more free. Albeit, if we'd survived the crash and gotten an apartment the way have one now––unmarried and not engaged––the older folks would've given us a lot of flack," Steve threw in. Art's elbows slipped off the shoulders of the front seats and she reached a hand forward to place over Steve's, which rested on the gearshift. From the corner of her eye, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards a little.

"And it wasn't necessarily frowned upon to be affectionate towards your significant other in public; people kissed and hugged out in the open all the time. It's just that no one was ever _blatantly_ shoving their hand down the back of their significant other's pants, or choking them by shoving their tongue down their throat," she explained.

"Not to mention that when Artie and I actually starting dating we were actively in the military," Steve pointed out. There was a slightly reflective pause, one the stretched on to allow the slight whooshing of the air conditioning to fill the cab. "We couldn't really… show any sort of affection towards each other in public at all. So in the middle of being thrown into," he gestured out the windshield at the vast modern world with a nod of his head, " _all of this_ , we were also trying––still trying––to navigate how to express our affection for each other in a public sense. We're caught between the ideals of two different eras; and some of that isn't bad. It's just… confusing."

Natasha hummed and shifted in her seat, sitting up a little more. "But at least you've got each other; you both have the same shared life experience," she joked. "Otherwise you'd have had to make something up."

"What, like you?" Steve asked, glancing over at the woman in the passenger's seat.

"I dunno. The truth is a matter of circumstance. It's not all things to all people, all the time," she replied, starting to sound a little tired, her voice quiet and gentle. She glanced over at Steve with an arched eyebrow and a crooked smile. "Neither am I."

Steve took his eyes off the road again in order to fix her with a melancholy expression. "That's a tough way to live."

"It's a good way not to die, though... "

"Y'know, it's kinda hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is."

"Yeah…" Nat murmured, the previously light-hearted feel of the car slipping away. "Who do you want me to be?"

"How about a friend?" Steve tried easily.

Natasha laughed quietly and rolled her head against the headrest so she could stare out at the road. She was quiet a moment, her expression almost doleful for a second. "Well, there's a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers."

Art stared at Natasha for a quiet moment. She was smiling gently, but there was a sadness behind it, a sadness that was well hidden but definitely there. A friend is what Art considered Nat to be; they were more than just sparring partners or co-workers, they were _friends_. They had shared innumerable stories on girls nights, exchanged secrets over coffee dates, saved each other's backs on missions, and just generally enjoyed being in the other's presence. Nat had been one of the people who had helped Art feel more at home in the modern era. She had been patient with Art when she couldn't figure out how to use an ATM, and helped her change the ringtones on her phone. And the fact that the word 'friend' could make her seem so sad was genuinely upsetting.

"You need friends, no matter what business you're in," Art said. Nat's eyes slid to meet hers, her smile fading to something more neutral, which made it easier to see the unease behind her eyes. Art smiled at her gently as the truck made a sharp turn onto disused road.

The concrete the road was made of was cracked with age, sprigs of grass poking through as nature attempted to reclaim it. Trees shaded it from the dying sunlight. There appeared to have been a couple of sign posts, but the signs themselves were either too faded to read, snapped off, or completely gone. Through the tree-line, some distance back, a chain link fence with razor wire at the top could be seen, creating a perimeter for wherever it was they were headed. Art noticed that the muscles in Steve's jaw had tensed some and that his shoulders had gone stiff. His eyes scanned the curving road as it led them deeper and deeper into the forest, like he was expecting something to jump out of the woods. When the road finally broke through the trees, Art realized why Steve had seemed so tense. At the end of the road was a chain link gate with two weathered stop signs on the front of it. Beyond that was a guard house with boarded up windows and peeling paint, and beyond even _that_ were a number of other buildings in various states of decay. It was a military base. A sign on the fence read:

 **CAMP LEHIGH**

 **U.S. ARMY RESTRICTED AREA**

 **USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED**

It was where Steve had attended bootcamp. His entire journey started _there_ , beyond that chain link gate, in those woods, in those buildings.

The engine was cut and the three stepped out of the truck, into the cool evening air. Natasha was holding a small, thin silver device that bared a set of coordinates on a transparent blue screen. She glanced around her surroundings while Art already started to walk towards the gate. It was no secret that military bases, of the time, at least, tended to look the same; buildings were often painted a neutral tan, sometimes olive drab, and they didn't look particularly impressive on the outside. Sturdier buildings were constructed out of brick. There were bunk houses and mess halls, ammunition storage, vehicle bays, and training grounds. Those similarities caused Camp Lehigh, at a first glance at least, to seem very similar to the camp where Artie had trained. Standing in front of that gate was like standing feet away from a memory, one that she could actually walk into.

"The file came from these coordinates," Nat informed, pocketing her device. She and Steve stopped beside Art, make a precursory visual sweep of the gate before them. Steve looked over at the Camp Lehigh sign, eyeing its worn lettering.

"So did I," he said.

Art reached out to loop her fingers through the chainlink fencing and gave a slight tug. The gate moved an inch or two before it rattled in resistance and stopped. It was secured shut by a couple loops of chain and a padlock. Razor wire prevented the idea of climbing. But Steve was on top of it, shield back on his arm, which he rammed against the lock. It broke, as it was like to from the force of the hit, and Steve slipped it off before removing the chains. They slipped inside as the last bits of sunlight disappeared over the tops of the trees. Art was the last one in, so she pulled the gate closed behind them, stopping for a moment now that they were inside. Steve had stopped a few feet in front of her, dead in the middle of the road, gazing across the expanse of the abandoned camp.

Away from the noise of the highway, the air was bathed with the sound of rustling trees and crickets just starting their nightly songs. For a quiet moment, in the dying light of the day, it seemed like they could be back. Despite the peeling paint, boarded up windows, and cracked concrete, it felt like they had stepped back in time, back _home_. Even the last rays of sunlight bathed the place in a real-life sepia tone that made it all look like a photograph. But the lack of voices and life reminded them that the camp was abandoned, and that they were still in the twenty-first century. The life had long since been sapped from Camp Lehigh. But still, it seemed like there should be a window open in one of the bunkhouses, a young man leaning out of it so he could smoke his last cigarette of the day. There should be high-spirited voices pouring out of the mess hall, shouting mixed with singing, mixed laughter. Men should be marching down the streets in perfect order as they go to train, or should be slouching back in rumpled uniforms after a rigorous day. The air should smell like truck exhaust, warm rations, cigarette smoke, sweat, and hair tonic. But it just smelled like grass. Like decaying wood. It was a melancholy reminder of a life long since passed; one that, even in decay, managed to look a little beautiful.

"You guys alright?"

Natasha's voice startled Art, causing her to jump a little. Her fingers were still curled in the chain link fence, which rattled when she started. Those fingers slipped away and brushed some rust off on the leg of her jeans. Nat was standing a ways up the road, device in hand, eyeing the two soldiers with concern.

"Yeah," Art replied, stepping away from the gate. "Just… a little thrown." Steve nodded his head to agree with the statement, his eyes still roaming over the abandoned street. "So… where do we start?"

Steve let out a breath and looked this-way-and-that, as though reacquainting himself with the layout. "Well, if the file is hidden somewhere in the camp, it could be in any of the dozens of buildings."

"Then we better get started."

They started to methodically weave their way through the camp, sticking to the cracked, uneven roads. Natasha was scanning buildings with her little device, clucking her tongue whenever the readings came up inconclusive. She was scanning for anything that might tip them off to where the file could be stored––radio waves and things of that sort. But, so far, the search had yielded nothing. Natasha took the lead, walking ahead of the soldiers who walked with a slower attentiveness. Steve was eyeing the barracks as they passed them by, as though trying to eye an identifying feature. Most of the doors were thrown open, windows shattered, and tall grass flanked decaying stairs. Building numbers were bared over the doors in faded paint. They'd seen much better days.

"Were your barracks on this row?" she asked curiously. He nodded and narrowed his eyes at the faded number over the door of the building they were passing.

"Should be the next one," he said.

The mentioned building was in sad shape. The door was missing, the steps were rotten, and the roof appeared to be caving in. Shades flapped uselessly in glassless windows. Steve pursed his lips a little but kept walking, his eyes lingering on the barracks as they passed it by. Art could imagine Steve––before being Captain America, before the serum––trotting up and down the steps, eager to train as hard as he could. She could picture his dedicated face as he worked hard to keep up with the other men. She could picture him leaving the camp at five-foot-four, ninety-five pounds, putting his life on the line for a doctor who believed in him.

"This look anything like where you trained?" Steve asked. Art looked around in the growing darkness, eyeing dark windows that she could perfectly picture glowing with light. A faint smile rose to her face as she gently nodded.

"Yeah. Buildings look the same, but on a different lay out. I can just… hear the wake-up calls now," she joked. Beside her, Steve chuckled, his expression lightening for the first time since they'd set foot inside Camp Lehigh. Her own smile started to fade upon seeing her ghost-like reflection in one of the dusty windows. "I remember it being less… creepy, though. I've never seen a camp like this seem so… dead."

Steve nodded slowly, the back of his hand brushing against the back of hers. Art snaked her hand around his and entwined their fingers, continuing the walk down the street in silence. The silence was broken by the sound of a cord pinging against a flagpole. It echoed eerily through the camp, like the slow, dying heartbeat of a memory. The offending flagpole came into view, the cord wiggling slowly, mournfully. Natasha jutted her device high into the air, eyes narrowed at the screen to try and read it through the darkness. Art and Steve followed a short ways behind, hands still clasped.

"This is where I was trained," he told Natasha.

"Change much?" she asked.

Steve came to a stop, looking up at the top of the flagless flagpole. "A little."

Art squeezed Steve's hand before she let it go, narrowing her eyes to peer through the darkness. She walked past the flagpole, trying to see how far the main road stretched ahead of them. They hadn't even covered a quarter of the camp and they had still come up with nothing. The lack of light was going to be an issue, soon; she wondered if any of the buildings still had electricity. Or if any of them had a flashlight.

"This is a dead end," Natasha announced. Art snorted a little at the word 'dead.' "Zero heat signatures, zero waves––not even radio. Whoever wrote the file must have used a router to throw people off." Steve turned to look at Natasha, who was stood up on a concrete walkway, but his eyes honed in on something just behind her. His brows furrowed. "What is it?"

"Artie," Steve said, grabbing her attention. She followed his gaze only to spot a the front of a bunker behind Natasha. Her brows also furrowed over eyes that narrowed in confusion.

"That's… not right," she murmured. She jumped up to the concrete platform that Natasha was stood on, then leaping over the metal rails. Steve was quick to follow, and then all three dropped to the otherside of the walkway and started towards the bunker.

"Army regulations forbid storing munitions within five-hundred yards of the barracks," Steve explained. "This building is in the wrong place."

The door was padlocked shut, but with a swift smack from the edge of Steve's shield, they gained access. When the door was pulled open, a wave of dust and musty air swept out of the bunker in a wave. Art's nose wrinkled a little, apprehension brewing in the pit of her stomach. They didn't know what waited for them in the inky darkness of the bunker; but the cold chill that ran down her spine told her that it could be nothing good.

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**So, in writing this chapter, I came to realize that the movie never addresses where Steve hides his shield after going on the run, and how he picks it back up. It… boggles my mind, so I just let it lie. It's magical, apparently. Weird plot hole aside, I am so excited for next chapter––next chapter is the one I have been waiting to write since I drafted ideas for this movie. Oooooo, it's gonna be an action packed chapter!**_

 _ **Review Replies!**_

 **monkey baby:** _Thank you! I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!  
_ **Heh309:** _So, next chapter, we get some answers for Artie, and I am so excited to finally bring my ideas to fruition. And I'm happy that I can make even Artie and Steve's fingers touching be so effective, I think it's the little things like that that really make their relationship. We have yet to see the end of Richard Harlowe! We shall see him again soon, gets some more info on his situation. And keep her hyperfocus battle mode in mind… all shall be known soon. The highway scene is nigh and I am SO EXCITED. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!_

 **emmagnetised:** _I've gotta say, that I did write the bridge sequence but it was… awful. Like, I know exactly how Art got off that bridge (she bailed off the bike and jumped over the edge into the Potomac), but for the life of me I couldn't write it right. So after drafting it several times, I had to cut it. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, though, regardless of the missing action sequence! Thanks again!_

 **CuppaTea13:** _Thank you! Action scenes are tough to write, but I'm happy to hear I hit a good middle ground. And Harlowe's betrayal is a painful thing, but we are yet to see the end of him He'll be back. And the highway sequence is coming up, and I'm super excited to get Bucky back in the mix! Thanks again, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!_

 **dancindonna:** _Thank you so much! Art having that emotionless mask when she's in hyper-focus mode is something to keep in mind for next chapter… I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Nina fo life:** _Shit has kicked off, and the ball is just gonna keep on rollin' for them––like, seriously, these three just need to have a good rest and a good meal (good thing Sam's gonna be back up in this hizhouse soon). I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!_

 **anonymouscsifan:** _Harlowe betraying her was definitely a low blow for Artie; and she definitely was not pulling punches when it came to taking him down. More of Artie's memories will, indeed, be coming to light, and fairly soon. Also, I can confirm that, yeah, Bucky may have had an iiiiiiiiiitty bitty crush on Artie at one point or another. Him jokingly telling her that he would make a move if Steve didn't may not have been_ _ **entirely**_ _a joke. But he saw how much Steve and Artie were into each other and sort of let the crush pass. It was fleeting, but it was there. I've also contemplated writing little snippets of Artie and Steve's time back in the forties, 'cause I didn't do much of that in the original story, and I severely regret it (which is why I think I love writing flashbacks for this story). I regret not writing more Howard and Peggy. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **BeccaSco:** _Thank you so much! I'm very pleased that you've enjoyed the story so far (and that you suffered through the truly awful first half of the original story. I gotta rewrite that, hard yike). I hope that you'll stick around to read more; thanks again!_

 **Just A Reader:** _The brainwashing/mind control thing has come up quite a bit in the last story and this one as well because I'm building up to something regarding it. It's not meant to overwhelm the stories (and I hope it hasn't't). And while AoU has Scarlet Witch/Wanda and her ability to alter mind stuff, I don't intend on it being as large of a focus, or as much of a problem as it has been. In the next chapter, some stuff will get revealed as to why it's been a focus. But I hope that you've still been enjoying the story; thanks you again!_

 _ **And thank you to all that have added this to their follows/favorites; it means a lot!**_

 _ **And next chapter… oh, next chapter… there's gonna be some fun times to be had. Better buckle-up, 'cause shit may have gone down last chapter, but there's gonna be a good ol' bumpy ride next time. I hope that you all enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!**_

 _ **~Mary**_


	9. Kriegerin

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art._

9\. Kriegerin

The air in the bunker was stale. It caught at the back of the throat and make one feel like they were choking on dust. It smelled damp and musty like a basement. Art cleared her throat as she descended the stairs, steps slow and hand never leaving the hand-rail. At the bottom of the stairs, the trio fanned out a little. What murky light that streamed through the door above washed over two chairs and the corner of what looked to be a desk. It also illuminated what appeared to be a panel with a small switch on it, embedded into a support beam. The switch was flicked, and with a buzz, lightbulbs started to flicker on. The buzzing sound got a little louder with each light that flickered on. They were dim, but there were enough of them to allow the whole of the room to be seen. There were neat rows of desks, which still had filing implements and telephones atop their dusty surfaces. Waste baskets sat beside some, crinkled up paper still inside. Desk chairs were still located at some, while others sat aimlessly abandoned in the middle of the floor. On the far wall was a circular crest, in the center of which was a familiar looking eagle.

"This is S.H.I.E.L.D.," Natasha realized.

"Maybe where it started," Steve offered as they started to walk down the widest, main aisle. Everything in the room was eerily still. It was like everyone who had worked there had packed up their things, gone home for the evening, and just never came back. It was a room locked in time.

"The first S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters… hidden in plain view," Art mused.

They approached a door at the side of the room, the frosted glass glowing with the lights in the room beyond. It appeared to be some sort of administration room, with dozens of shelves––all empty––and rows of filing cabinets up against the wall. On one blue-grey wall, a small clock was hung, the time forever frozen at one-thirty-three. Cobwebs dangled from the overhead lights and clung to the corners of the ceiling. Over the filing cabinets were a number of official military portraits, and a handful of them were heart-wrenchingly familiar.

"There's Stark's father," Natasha pointed out when they came to a stop to observe the pictures.

"Howard," Steve said familiarly, a gentle fondness for the man apparent in his tone.

The frame that housed Howard Stark's portrait was hanging a little crooked and the glass has broken partially and shifted out of its proper housing. His expression was professionally serious, but Art thought she could still see some mirth sparkling in his eyes––though not as much as she remembered. His visage, caught forever in black and white, stared out at them silently. A sad smile pulled at the corners of Art's mouth; god, what she would give to talk to him again. No one could light up a room like Howard Stark could––no matter where he went, who he was with, or what he was feeling, he always made people smile.

"Who's the girl?" Natasha asked. She nodded to the picture frame to the right of Howard's. The 'girl' that she was referring to was Peggy Carter. She was smiling slightly, her familiar and beautifully tender expression caught by a talented photographer. Cobwebs had started to gather in the corners of the frame, but it did nothing to diminish the portrait inside of it. Steve remained silent, head dropping to tear his eyes away from the picture.

"Peggy Carter, the most remarkable woman I've ever met," Art said, eyes not yet torn away. When they did dart away, they moved to the portrait to the left of Howard's––Colonel Phillips. He looked as stern as he ever did, the perfect picture of the colonel he had been.

When Steve turned to walk away, Art stepped forward and straightened out Howard's picture frame. Nothing could be done about the glass, but her fingers lingered on the frame regardless. Her sad smile returned briefly, before she turned to follow Steve. He had stopped in front of one of the shelves, a hand held up to a fluttering piece of cobweb. A draft. There was draft coming from between two of the shelves. He eyed the row of shelves before holding out a hand to gesture Art to back up. She did and he followed suit.

"If you're already working in a secret office…" He wormed his fingers into the seam between the shelves, yanked, and the row of shelves rolled to the side, revealing that there was a space behind the units. Steve then pushed the shelves as far as they would go, revealing a small passage that led to a set of double doors. "Why do you need to hide the elevator?"

After cracking the code on the access panel using one of Nat's nifty devices, the elevator brought them lower and lower and lower, as low as it could go. When the doors slid open, they were greeted by a pitch-black room that was dotted with a couple blinking lights. Apprehensively, another chill rolling down her spine, Art reached into her pocket and withdrew the hilt of her staff. Slowly, they all stepped out of the elevator, eyes adjusting to the darkness. The room was not completely dark, Art realized, but lit with what could only be described as emergency lighting. Grates on the floor glowed with an ominous pale green light, and equally ominous looking machines were looming in the darkness against the walls. The elevator doors slid shut behind the trio, its light gradually disappearing. About half-way through the room, a motion sensor must have been activated, because the overhead lights started to flicker on. It revealed a room with some serious old computer equipment. The walls were floor-to-ceiling covered in routers and various other machines that Art couldn't put a name to. At the front of the room was a central console with one large, very old computer screen flanked by two smaller ones. They stepped up to the console and stopped, silently overwhelmed and underwhelmed by what they were surrounded by.

"This… can't be the data point, this technology is ancient," Nat reasoned critically.

Art shuffled a little closer to the central console, eyebrows furrowing upon spotting a spot of disturbed dust. It looked like someone had tried to wipe the layers of dust away, leaving streaks across the metal. And beside that spot was something that was decidedly _not_ 'ancient' and covered in dust––a USB port.

"I may not be the best with dating technology but…" Art pointed to the port. "I don't think that's been here for seventy years."

Natasha sidled over and eyed the port curiously, uttering a quiet 'huh.' He took Fury's thumb drive out of her pocket and clicked it into the drive, a soft beeping sound emitting at its insertion. More overhead lights popped on, illuminating the rest of the room. An extensive bay of machines was revealed behind them, all of which started to whir and click and flutter to life. The main screen on the console jumped to life, a flashing green rectangle dancing across the screen as it spelled out a question––one that it then spoked in a warped, warbled tone.

 _Initiate System?_

Slowly, Nat leaned forward, fingers hovering over the chunky, dusty keyboard. "Y-E-S, spells yes." She entered the command and the computer whirred, the screen going blank once more. The red head chuckled under her breath. "Shall we play a game?" A beat passed before she craned her head over her shoulder to look at the two soldiers. "It's from a movie that was really––"

"I know," Steve cut her off, eyes fluttering shut momentarily. " _We_ know. We saw it."

Nat's eyes shot over to Art, mildly surprised, and Art made a quasi-apologetic face and nodded to agree with Steve. It had been the first film in the modern horror genre that they had watched––and it had been a far cry from the Frankenstein of their day. Nat straightened up as a series of thin green bars flickered across the screen in an almost staticky manner. Then, faintly––so faintly she thought she was seeing things––Art thought she saw two thin circles towards the top of the screen. Then, the computer spoke again.

" _Rogers, Steven. Born nineteen-eighteen,_ " the computer stated. Art's eyelids fluttered at the sound of the computer's voice. It was staticky, but it wasn't warped like it had been before; it had an _accent_. A familiar one. Inexplicably familiar in some strange way. Atop the computer, a camera that they had not realized was there, slowly shifted to the next face. " _Knoll, Artemesia. Born nineteen-nineteen._ " A chill moved through her body as it spoke her name and then rotated to fixate on Nat. " _Romanof, Natalia Alianovna, born nineteen-eighty four._ "

"It's… some kind of recording," Nat reasoned tentatively.

" _I am not a recording, Fräuline!_ " exclaimed the computer. It was then that Art realized she _hadn't_ been seeing things before. The bars had gathered in such a way that two circles, like glasses, had formed on the screen. And a number of bars would jump and shrink whenever it spoke, like a mouth. " _I may not be the man I was when the Captain and his Lieutenant––then sergeant––took me prisoner in nineteen-forty five. But I_ _ **am**_ _._ "

The screen to the right lit up, baring a black and white photograph of Dr. Arnim Zola. Art's formerly crinkled expression went slack both in horror and disbelief. Her eyes flew from the picture to the screen, where more of the thin green bars had joined to create more of a face––a faint nose, the start of a forehead, the general outline of a mouth, the starts of a set of ears.

"You know this thing?"

"Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull," Steve explained, making to walk behind the console, in case there was any kind of trickery. "He's been dead for years."

" _First correction, I am_ _ **Swiss!**_ " proclaimed Zola in indignation. " _Second, look around you. I have never been more alive! In nineteen-seventy-two I received a terminal diagnosis; science could not save my body. My mind, however, that was worth saving, on two-hundred-thousand feet of databanks. You are standing in my brain._ "

"How did you get here?" Steve asked, stepping back up to Art's side.

" _Invited,_ " he replied brightly.

"Why do I find that particularly hard to believe?" Art deadpanned, mouth set in a grim line.

"It was… Operation Paperclip after World War Two. S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited German scientists with… _strategic_ value," Nat explained quickly, eyes not once leaving the Zola Computer.

" _They thought I could help their cause. I also helped my own…_ "

"HYDRA died with the Red Skull," Steve stated, the patience in his voice wearing a little thin. Art's hands clenched into fists––one at her side, the other around her staff.

" _Cut off one head,_ " HYDRA's symbol appeared on the screen, " _two more shall take its place_." The symbol disappeared to reveal Zola's computerized face, which then divided into two faces.

"Prove it," Art demanded, voice a little shaky.

" _Accessing archive._ " The remaining six screens in or above the console came to life, files flickering across them. On one of the larger screens, a picture of Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull in human visage, appeared, a Nazi flag rippling behind him. " _HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realize was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist_." News footage of D-Day started to roll, soldiers splashing into the water and onto the beach. Footage of Steve and Artie fighting with the Commandos, taking down HYDRA blockades. " _The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded, and_ _ **I**_ _was recruited. The new HYDRA grew. A beautiful parasite_ _ **inside S.H.I.E.L.D.**_ " Pictures flashed by of S.H.I.E.L.D. in its early days––pictures of Peggy and Howard, of Washington D.C., and of Zola, lurking in the background of it all. " _For seventy years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war, and when history did not cooperate… history was changed._ " Images of a metal arm adorned with a vivid red star popped up. The Winter Soldier was pictured with a sniper, aimed and ready.

"That's _impossible_ , S.H.I.E.L.D. would have stopped you," Nat said, her tone hoarse.

" _Accidents happen_." The news article that appeared on screen made Art's heart drop to her feet and twisted her stomach in knots. The headline that she stared at read as such: 'New York, Friday, December 17th, 1991: Howard and Maria Stark Die in Car Accident.' It then switched to grainy crime-scene photos, showing Howard slumped over at the wheel of his car, his wife slouched in the seat beside him. Next was the file of Nicholas J. Fury, the word 'DECEASED' printed over his photograph. " _HYDRA created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once a purification process is complete, HYDRA's new order will arise!_ " Videos flashed across the screen so rapidly that Art could barely identify them as they passed. The last one, however, she recognized––it was helicarriers for project insight, which were supposed to eliminate threats before they happened… but the words 'purification process' jumped to the forefront of her mind, and she started to shake her head. " _We_ _ **won,**_ _Captain!_ " Articles ranging from the disappearance of Captain Rogers and Lieutenant Knoll to their triumphant return flickered across the screen teasingly. " _Your death amounts to the same as your life._ _ **A zero sum!**_ "

Steve, in a sudden burst of fury, slammed a fist forward, cracking the screen and deactivating it with a single punch. A moment of blissful silence filled the room, Zola's grating tone no longer filling it. There was a whirring and a squeaking, before the screen to the right flickered and revealed Zola's digital face.

" _As I was saying…_ " The camera atop the first computer appeared to still be operational, as it slowly panned towards Art. " _Don't think that we have forgotten about you, Lieutenant, we would never be so cruel_."

Art blinked at the small screen as Steve and Nat swiveled to look back at her. Her brows furrowed and her eyelids fluttered in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

" _You were always meant to be our rising star! Our_ _ **kriegerin**_ ," Zola emphasised. The word caused Art to flinch, her jaw tensing, her fingers tightening. She looked down at the buttons of the console, tensely shaking her head.

"Don't say that…" she muttered.

" _Why should I not state what is true? What is_ _ **inevitable?**_ _Your fate was sealed the moment you were captured, Lieutenant. You were always meant to be a test subject; our plans merely evolved upon us discovering that you were a woman. From that point on we knew you were destined for bigger, better things._ "

Art glared at the screen from under her lashes, thumb tensing over the button that would extend the staff; she was on the verge of smashing every screen in the room till Zola had nothing to speak through. "Yeah, and that bigger, better thing was putting an end to HYDRA." There was a garbled chuckling sound, condescending amused. "Schmidt planned on _killing me_ after he documented the effects of the super soldier serum on a woman. There must be a glitch in your system, 'cause you've got some of your information wrong."

" _Did he ever say he would kill you, Lieutenant?_ " Zola questioned.

Art's mouth popped open, ready to reply, ready to prove Zola wrong––but she froze. She recalled Schmidt looming over the medical table she was strapped to, a syringe in hand. There had been a sly, smug look on his face as he leaned over her to question: ' _I wonder… will it kill you?_ ' Mouth still hanging open, Art's eyes started to sting. Schmidt had said it so _teasingly_ so _lightly_ ––he had been toying with her, making her scared. He had never actually _promised_ to kill her.

"He… he said that no one would be able to save me after the final dose," Art managed to squeak out, her voice barely above a whisper. She was still staring at the buttons, but was aware that Steve had slowly started to inch towards her, a comforting hand stretched out in her direction. But she couldn't take it. She couldn't move. Her heart was thrumming in her hears and she felt like she was going to vomit.

"' _Save' is not always mutually exclusive to 'death,' dear Lieutenant. That final dose was meant to_ _ **complete**_ _you. It was a shame, when we thought we had lost you; we had lost such potential. But imagine our joy upon hearing that you had been perfectly preserved because of the work that had already been done._ " One of the screens suddenly displayed pictures of Art's frozen form freshly chiseled from the ice, her skin pale and blue-tinged, limbs, expression shockingly peaceful. Steve's hand grabbed hold of hers, fingers tightly curling around hers; her fingers curled around his reflexively, tight enough to cause joints to pop.

"Artie, don't listen––"

"The memory lapses," Art cut Steve off, eyes flicking up to Zola's screen. Her face was dangerously fierce and her hands were starting to shake. Her voice broke when next she spoke. "What are the memory lapses?"

" _Our ultimate goal has always been to pair you with our other star,_ " it was here Zola disappeared and was replaced with a grainy photograph of the Winter Soldier, " _though you have proven exceedingly difficult to work on. We were determined to continue our work after you were excavated from the tundra, but it has proved… challenging. Your 'memory lapses,' as you call them, are moments in which we regain momentary control. There is still much work to be done, but it will be work well spent._ "

A dry, humorless laugh bubbled from Art's throat and she started to shake her head. "You're _lying_ , you _have to be_ lying! Why would you tell me any of this? There's no _reason_ for you to tell me all of this! You don't tell a lab rat what you're going to do to it before you do it!"

" _But there is no point in keeping the inevitable shrouded in a curtain of mystery, is there?_ "

Steve was breathing hard. Harsh breaths ripped in and out of his nose as he tried to control his temper. Art was shaking against his side, rendered nearly catatonic as Zola's words washed over her. There was only so much more that he could listen to before he ripped the circuitry out of Zola's computer to end him _forever_. He jutted an angry finger at the thumb drive, which was still jutting out of the port. They needed information, they needed it fast, and then they needed to get the hell out–– _Artie_ needed to get the hell out.

"What's on this drive?" Steve demanded, voice heated and barely clinging to control.

" _Project Insight requires_ _ **insight**_ _. So I wrote an algorithm…_ "

"What kind of algorithm, what does it do?" Natasha spoke rushedly, nearly tripping over her own words.

" _The answer to your question is fascinating; unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it._ " A ringing sound started to drone in Art's ears. _That_ was why he had told her the plans. If she was going to die, there was no need to keep the secret. There was a grating sound behind them, which prompted Steve to turn and toss his shield, trying to wedge it between the steel doors that were going to cut off access to the elevator. The doors shut, the shield clanged off of it and returned to Steve. " _It is a shame to lose our kriegerin––you had such potential._ "

With a scream, Art flew forward and slammed her fist into the computer screen repeatedly, the glass shattering against her knuckles, the shards scraping and cutting at her skin. She stood hunched over the console, bloody hand braced on the desk portion of it, and breathed heavily. There was a faint beeping from Natasha's pocket.

"Guys, we've got a bogey," she announced. "Short range ballistic… thirty seconds tops."

"Who fired it?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D."

" _I am afraid I have been_ _ **stalling**_ _, Captain. Admit it! It's_ _ **better**_ _this way,_ " Zola prompted, appearing on the left screen. Natasha grabbed Art by the wrist and dragged her away from the console that had just leveled her world as she knew it. " _We are, both of us…_ _ **out of time**_ **.** "

It wasn't long before Art felt a sudden burst of pressure and heat at her back. The explosion propelled both her and Natasha forward and into the crawl space that Steve had wrenched open. He dropped in after them, the three huddled together as the world shook around them. Debris fell atop them unyieldingly, clanging off Steve's shield as the bunker––as half of Camp Lehigh––crumbled into ruin above them. There was a continuous, drawn-out groan from Steve as he fought to keep his shield held high, shrieks of pain and terror as Art and Nat fought to keep themselves from being crushed. Art wasn't sure how long this went on. But, eventually, everything went still. The debris settled. The rumbling stopped. Sound was muffled. The bodies that she was sandwiched barely moved. The air was hot and stuffy. For a terrifying moment, it felt like the world had completely crumbled around them.

Then the strained groaning returned. One of the bodies––Steve's––shifted suddenly as he tried to stand. As he tried to shift and shove the rubble above them away. With arms that shook almost too much to be any help, Art reached up till her fingers met cool vibranium. Bracing herself, she also started to push, grunting with the momentous effort. With their groans ending in strained shouts, Art and Steve shoved a thick slab of concrete aside. A burst of warm, dusty, but _relieving_ air washed over them. Art pitched forward, spilling out of their now completely destroyed hidey-hole. Her arms and legs felt like jello. Her eyes burned as smoke wafted into them, smoke that caused her to choke and cough. Art pulled herself out of the hole and struggled to find her footing in the rubble that had once been part of Camp Lehigh. The air was hot and smokey, fires burned around her as wood and foliage and whatever else was flammable blazed away.

It was hard to figure out left from right in all the rubble, but they didn't have time to really catch their bearings. For as Steve emerged with a barely conscious Natasha in his arms, S.H.I.E.L.D. aircrafts swept towards the impact sight. As painful as it was, as difficult as it was, Steve and Art navigated through the rubble as fast as they could, passing off their unconscious friend when they had to. They then had to run, on aching, wobbly legs, to the front gate, where their 'borrowed' truck remained untouched. Art buckled Nat into the back seat, jumped in the back herself, and urged Steve to drive. As they hightailed it away from the smoking, burning Camp Lehigh, Art used what––extremely––rudimentary medical training she had received as a nurse to check on Nat. She checked her pulse and monitored it silently for a couple of minutes. She then monitored her breathing and checked for a head wound.

"How is she?" asked Steve from the driver's seat. Art sighed and antsily removed her jacket and hoodie, which had started to feel claustrophobic and restrictive. The two articles of clothing were balled up and placed against the window as a makeshift pillow for Natasha. Art then climbed over the center console and into the passenger's seat.

"No severe head trauma… It's possible that she's passed out due to… smoke inhalation or stress or… I don't know. I was never a real nurse…" Art shut her eyes, braced her elbow against the window, and clapped a hand over her eyes. "I think she'll be okay."

"How are _you_ doing?" Steve asked, tone low and concerned.

Under her hand, Art felt her eyebrows furrow sharply. When her nose and eyes started to sting with the threat of tears, she cleared her throat. "We… need to get back to D.C., but… if we can find out where Sam Wilson lives, he might… there can't be any record of… he seems like… we just… I…" Art tripped over every sentence she tried to say. Her voice shook more and more with every word. Tears had started to cut wet streaks over her sooty cheeks.

"Hey." Steve's voice was gentle, just as gentle as the hand that came to rest on her knee. "It's going to be okay, Artie."

The gentleness of his voice broke something in her. But she forcibly choked back a sob, and curled her fingers into a fist when they wanted to reach out to take Steve's hand. His hand remained on her knee, unmoving and a quiet source of comfort. "We don't know that… we don't know that…"

OOOO

It turned out that finding the location of Sam's house was a lot easier than it was initially thought out to be; Nat had resources that Steve and Artie did not, and she'd had the former airman's address. So they'd left their borrowed truck on the street corner a few blocks away, where it would sit till some city authority would likely report finding the stolen vehicle. The trio tried to be as stealthy as they possibly could, which was fairly difficult given that they were streaked with soot, smelled like smoke, and their feet dragged with exhaustion. But they slipped through any backyard that they could and kept their heads ducked. It was to Sam's great surprise to find three battered and bruised Avengers at his back door, but he welcomed them inside with little to no hesitation.

They were directed to the bathroom and told they were allowed to use the facilities in order to clean themselves up. Steve insisted either Art or Nat use the shower first; Art gently urged Nat to go first, as she was the most physically beaten up and sore of the three. The super soldiers could already feel their bruises and cuts mending. Such was why Art found herself pacing restlessly through Sam's apartment; she had sat down for approximately forty seconds before it became very clear that she was not going to be able to sit still for a while. The living room was where Art had ended up, trying to read the spines of the book on the bookshelf. But she kept rereading the titles in an attempt to comprehend them. Her hands rose to cover her eyes and a shaky breath passed through her nose.

"Looks like you could do with some hot coffee," said Sam. Art started a little and her hands jerked away from her face. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

Art turned to see Sam stood in the doorway to the living room, a mug clutched in one hand. His brows were pinched apologetically––but there was a kind of understanding in that apology. He knew what it was like to be startled by the smallest things. She tried for a shaky smile and moved her shoulders in a weak shrug.

"Don't worry about it. And coffee sounds great, thank you."

With the offer accepted, Sam stepped into the room and extended the mug. "Hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of holding off on cream and sugar."

The coffee in the mug was a little pale, evidence that Sam had, indeed, held off on adding too much cream. A little sip of the scalding liquid revealed that not much sugar had been added either. The corner of her mouth quirked upwards a little.

"I don't mind at all; you got it pretty close to how I make it at home," she commended. Sam smiled with a kind of quiet pride, like he knew he'd gotten it right. There was something unspoken about the fact that he _had_ gotten it right because he, too, took his coffee either extremely sweet or particularly bitter. There was something about regimented military food––no matter from what time––that changed one's palate.

The two were quiet for a moment while Art sipped at the coffee and returned to trying to read the book spines. The few that she could focus on were books on military history, particularly the air force. It was while she attempted to read the fourth title that, from the corner of her eye, she spotted Sam shifting on his feet a little.

"I know you've all promised to tell me what's going on in a bit, but… are you okay? You seem… a little more shaken than your buddies," Sam said quietly.

Art's fingers tightened around the mug she clutched both hands. The hand around the handle tightened a little more than the other, and she could feel the porcelain creak with warning. She flexed her fingers outwards, stretching them away to free the handle of her superhuman grasp. "I don't know. I feel like the security I'd finally found has been ripped out from under my feet. Like I'm tripping towards the edge of a cliff and the fall is inevitable," Art said, voice quiet and gaze a little unfocused. There was a pause while Sam took in what she had just told him.

"So… not good," he surmised flatly.

This pulled a much needed laugh from Art's chest, realizing that the way she'd described how she felt had been a little Byronic. "Yeah. Not good."

The floor creaked to announce the arrival of another person. Steve had appeared in the doorway, face still streaked with soot, his eyes intently trained on Art. His concern was evident in the furrow of his brows and the tense down-turn of his lips. It was clear that he wanted–– _needed_ ––to speak to Art, but didn't want to do so till they were alone. Sensing this, apparently, Sam let his arms drop and swing at his sides; he took a step back and looked between the two soldiers, who held each other's gaze unwaveringly.

"I'll, uh, get started on making some breakfast. I sense that this is a story not to be told on an empty stomach," Sam said, staring to back towards the door. Steve stepped aside to let him pass through. "Shout if you need anything."

With that, Art and Steve were left alone in the bookshelf lined living room. There was a conversation approaching, the words tripping on the edge of their tongues, but neither of them could select the correct first word. Art looked down at her coffee and cleared her throat. The sounds of Sam bustling around in the kitchen filled the adjacent room.

"Sam, uh… has some of the same books we do," Art pointed out for lack of anything else to say. She gestured to the shelf loaded with military focused books with the mug, hoping Steve's eyes might shift away from her. There was nothing uncomfortable about his gaze––there never had been––it was just so _intent_. He did not look to the books. Art shifted on her feet.

"Artie…"

"And there's a couple that we don't have, we should, uh… take note, get them if they're good."

"Artie."

"We haven't done much reading on the air force––"

" _Artie._ "  
Her head dropped and a sigh fled through her lips. One hand rose to massage her forehead, which had tensed when her brows had furrowed. When that hand dropped away, Art leaned her head back a little, staring up at the plain white ceiling and dated light fixture. "Yeah, I know… I'm… avoiding the subject," she sighed. "I'm just… trying to figure out how to go about discussing it."

The sound of Steve's feet padding across the floor proceeded the warmth of his hand appearing in the middle of her back. Art's eyes fell shut when the familiar, comforting feeling of his presence swept over her. With a prompting, quiet 'c'mon' from Steve, she was turned away from the bookshelf and steered towards the couch. The soldiers seated themselves on the edge of the cushions, both angled towards the other, their knees touching. Art still couldn't meet Steve's gaze, her eyes dutifully locked on the mug clasped between both her hands. Steve reached out and curled one of his hands over one of hers, his thumb tracing a calming path over her wrist.

"I need to know if you're okay, Artie," he told her quietly. His other hand appeared to mimic the comforting grasp of the other, affectively clasping both of her hands between his.

Slowly, Art raised her head and met Steve's gaze. The tense look of concern from mere moments ago had softened into something more intimately and heartbreakingly concerned. That look alone cracked her resolve. Tears started to spring to her eyes and her expression started to crumple.

"No. I'm not okay. I… _can't_ stop thinking about what Zola said. That they wanted–– _want_ ––to turn me into… _whatever_ the Winter Soldier is. A… mindless, emotionless shell of a person that they can stuff with their commands and force to do whatever their will is. I fought him, Steve, I looked into his eyes and I saw––" Art thought of the chilling blue of the Winter Soldier's eyes, how they pierced into her, how unwavering they were, " _nothing_. There was _nothing_. It was like watching a machine calculate its next move. They want me to be a machine." The frightened passion in her voice suddenly disappeared and her expression went cold. At the back of her head, the voice of a very smug Asgardian teased her. "They want me to be the perfect soldier."

Steve started to shake his head and his hands tightened around hers. "They aren't going to do that to you."

Art sputtered a little. "What if they already have!? W-what if they've already implanted some kind of… trigger phrase that'll turn me into Winter Soldier two-point-oh? A phrase that would allow HYDRA to command me to _kill you_. Kill… _anyone_ I am close to. Use a familiar face to get close enough to carry out the kill."

" _Artemesia._ "

"We don't know, Steve! _We don't know_. I _hate_ not knowing, I don't _like_ not knowing, I feel like a danger to you a-and Nat, and Sam, and––"

Art was cut off by the coffee mug being pulled from her hands. Steve set the mug on the coffee table before immediately pulling Art against his chest, holding her close. She grabbed fist fulls of the front of his shirt, which smelled like smoke and sweat, and started to cry into his shoulder. Every emotion that she had shoved aside and buried since Fury's death was released. It all washed over her like a great tidal wave, because she hadn't allowed herself the chance to recognize the tumultuous storm of emotions that the last twenty-four hours. Steve held her close, with an arm curled around her torso. His hand gently clasped the back her head, smoothing through her tangled hair.

"You'll never be their soldier. I won't allow it. _You_ won't allow it. They may want you to be the perfect soldier, but you're _not_. You're _not_ the perfect soldier, and thank god for that. If you were, you'd be insufferable. You'd strictly play by the rules. You would listen to and take orders blindly. You don't do those sorts of things, and that what makes you perfectly Lieutenant Liberty. Perfectly _Artie._ You aren't their toy. You aren't their soldier. You're Artemesia Knoll," Steve murmured.

With her face pressed against Steve's shoulder, Art let out a prolonged breath. Tears were still wet on her cheeks and her stinging eyes were shut tiredly. As odd as it may have seemed, the words 'you're not the perfect soldier' had come to such a _relief_ to her. There might have been a time in Art's life where 'being the perfect soldier' was the goal. But that phrase had been hurled at her and used about her in such a negative context during the Battle of New York; it made her skin crawl. Because any time someone said that to her, it was always Loki's cold voice whispering in her ear.

"Thank you," Art whispered into his shoulder. Steve's lips pressed a kiss to the side of her head.

"You are strong, and you won't let this pull you down, I know it. We'll figure this out together."

Art sat back a little, still held close by Steve's arm, and looked up at his face. With the corner of her mouth quirking up a little, she reached up and started to work her thumb over a particular spot on his cheek. "Looks like you just made it out of Azzano."

A chuckle rumbled in Steve's chest and he leaned his head into her hand a little. "Afraid I wasn't there for that."

"I was; and you kinda look how I did. You should hop in the shower next; I've got to finish my coffee before it goes cold." Art nodded to the mug sat on the coffee table.

Steve's eyes flitted over her face, as though double-checking she was feeling a little better, and nodded gently. He craned his head forward and pressed his lips against her forehead in a lingering kiss. Art's eyes fell shut, and remained shut while he rose from the couch. She listened to him exit the room, his footsteps pacing towards Sam's bedroom. With a quiet sigh, Art slumped into the couch cushions. Her eyes flicked open and focused on the narrow column of light that appeared between the drawn curtains.

"Not the perfect soldier…" The corner of Art's mouth quirked up a little. "Thank god for that…"

 _ **Afterword:**_ _**I've wanted to get this chapter up for forever (literally forever, this was one of the chapters I was most excited about writing for WS). The first half was easy writing, had lots of fun… the last half was a real bitch to write. Life's been a real bitch, too. But, ah, well; c'est la vie!**_

 _ **Review Replies!**_

 **emmagnetised:** _Their public personalities relationship wise are something I'm having so much fun progressing. Because they're so used to there being a certain point where PDA becomes unacceptable, but that standard has changed since the forties, clearly. I've also been dying to do scenes like the hot-wiring of the car; because I feel like everyone expects Steve and Artie to be so high-and-mighty-and-righteous, following the law to the T… And I feel like there's so much that they've had to do that would surprise everyone. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Nina fo life:** _I've worked really hard to give Art her own stuff to say, because it never feels right to give her other people's lines. Sometimes I go through whole scenes were she doesn't say a thing because she, as a character, wouldn't say something. And then there are scenes that I put in that are completely of my own creation because it's important to her and her own plot. And I had to include the deleted tracker-suit scene, because that's so imperative. And I use to have a polyvore for Artie's clothes, but polyvore changed so drastically that I lost all my stuff and don't really have anywhere else to put inspirations for her clothes. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **LoveFiction2018:** _They have not had their first time yet, no. I'd say that they've probably gotten kiiiiiiiiinda close to it, but haven't taken the plunge yet. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **Heh309:** _Next chapter is gonna be action packed and probably emotional as all hell. LET'S GET TO IT! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **CaptainLoki:** _Sorry for the absence! This semester for me was non-stop work (of all sorts) and I just got a chance to breathe now that it's the holidays. I hope you enjoyed this very late chapter!_

 **KMB:** _Oh, things will probably REALLY kick off next chapter (if I'm thinking of the timing of things correctly). And writing the betrayal from Artie's point of view was… difficult but very fun. And now we have some answers regarding the brainwashing… girl can't catch a break, can she? I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!_

 **BubbleAnn:** _Finally a new chapter! I hope you enjoyed it; thanks again!_

 _ **And thank you to those of you that read and added to their follows/favorites; it means a lot! And THANK YOU to everyone for sticking through my months long absence. Again.**_

 _ **I'm happy to finally get this chapter up and out there, after literal years of being excited to get this one out to you guys. I hope you all enjoyed it, despite the awfully long wait. Thanks again you guys!**_

 _ **~Mary**_


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